


We're Still Roaming

by catholicschoolgirl



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 39,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6747172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/pseuds/catholicschoolgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Zayn gradually discovers that Harry Styles is, in fact, the devil. And, like the devil, Styles is exceptionally charming and probably very well-intentioned. He brings baked goods to their Events meetings. He smiles a lot and wears tight jeans that are very distracting. On the surface, he is everything that the Co-Chair of a Parent’s Association should be. But what Zayn very quickly ascertains is that Styles can be all of those things and also somehow manage to embody every single horrible stereotype about PTA parents at the same time."</p><p>Zayn's bored and decides to volunteer for the PTA at his daughter's school. He may or may not come to regret this decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I requested a PTA fic in the last Zarry Fic Exchange. When I didn't receive it, I decided to write it myself. So here we are.
> 
> Thank you to Rue and Emily for the beta read and Suzey for the Britpick. And thank you for reading!
> 
> Title from Lukas Graham's 7 Years.

The story starts -- like most of Zayn’s poor life decisions -- because he is bored.

Zayn is not frequently bored, which explains why his life doesn’t seem to be quite so messy to outside observers, but the last twenty years of his life have been characterized by a humming, all-encompassing sense of crushing overload. He had his daughter, Summer, fairly young and he realizes now that he tried to overcompensate by working a ton and trying to make a good life for her. His days were filled with classes at LSE, studying for the BPTC at City Law School, applying for jobs, magically landing a gig with the UN, working hard and occasionally crying at his desk, then somehow landing a teaching gig at UCL and working some more. Zayn’s fairly successful now and it isn’t because it just fell into his lap. It’s because he’s earned it.

But now he’s bored. Achingly so, and for the first real time in his life. He knows he shouldn’t be. He’s beginning a year-long sabbatical to finish up his book -- what Summer has been calling “the next great piece of British non-fiction about human rights and law things” -- so it’s not like he doesn’t have shit to do. He has plenty of rewriting and editing to keep himself occupied, and there are a few odd jobs he could take up around the flat. He could always start volunteering or something. Meet up with some of his students and import knowledge about how to perfect their CV and try to avoid throwing themselves head-first into the Thames.

Doesn’t mean he wants to do any of those things, though, so here he is.

Summer’s mum, Gigi, lives in the States. Gigi’s a former model. Or maybe just a model -- Zayn has no clue whether she still works regularly or is content to live off the random odd job and her family’s impressive riches. Either way, Summer stays with Gigi during half term, and Zayn sits around his flat in the interim and waits for Summer to come back.

Occasionally, Zayn intersperses the waiting with texts and Skype calls. Summer always looks good when he rings her up, happy and tanned like she always gets after being in California for a few weeks, and then she lets Zayn and Gigi chat for a bit. Zayn would never admit it out loud, but he really looks forward to those opportunities to catch up with Gigi. She’s a riot to talk to when she isn’t trying to set Zayn up with some random acquaintance or scolding him for eating so much takeout.

“How have you been, then?” Gigi asks. It’s the middle of July and Gigi is gorgeous, same as she’s always been. She’s got faint laugh lines around her mouth these days and Zayn thinks it makes her look sexy and dignified. Zayn wishes he looked sexy and dignified. Mostly he just thinks he looks old. He’s getting very gray and some of his tattoos could do with a touch-up. His back twinges every so often. And, perhaps most embarrassingly, he has a pair of reading glasses that he keeps in his bag. Sometimes Summer laughs at him and calls him Ned Stark and he isn’t sure if it’s a compliment or not.

“All right, I suppose,” Zayn answers with a shrug. “Been missing Summer.”

“She says you’ve seemed a little down on your calls recently.”

Zayn frowns. Zayn loves his daughter to the moon and back, but sometimes he feels like she’s a tremendous tattle-tale. “I’m not sad.”

“Well, Summer thinks you are. You know how she worries about you.” Gigi pulls a smoothie from off screen and takes a giant glug. It’s green and looks thick and disgusting. She used to try and get Zayn to eat shit like that when they were together, probably because she loved him and was concerned about his health. It didn’t take very long for her to discover that Zayn’s penchant for junk food and nicotine is the real great love of his life. Well, that and Summer, obviously. “How’s the book coming?”

Zayn grumbles for a few moments. He hates answering questions about his book. It’ll be done when it’s done. And when it’s done, he’ll let everyone know, and then they can come up with a new filler question to ask him. Or maybe it’ll never be done, and he can just be a failure, and then they can ask him questions about what it’s like to be a crushing disappointment to his family and the world of academia instead.

Gigi tilts her head. Sometimes she has a way of looking at Zayn like she’s seeing right through him. It drives Zayn mad and makes him want to live in a cave and stop talking to the outside world.

“You should find a hobby,” Gigi suggests. “Something to amuse yourself when you’re not working on the book. To help inspire you -- or whatever. You always did love art. Maybe you can volunteer at a gallery or something.”

Zayn hums. “Maybe. Dunno. I think if I were to volunteer, I would want to do something with more tangible results though. Guess that’s just the lawyer in me.”

Gigi giggles. It’s this high tinkling sound and it reminds Zayn of fair weather and his daughter’s laughter. It really wasn’t that long ago that they were all still together -- Zayn, Gigi, and Summer. Zayn and Gigi had been young when they had Summer, both in their early-ish twenties, and they came from completely different worlds, shared experiences growing up Muslim aside. Gigi never really fell in love with the clouds and gloom of London and she didn’t like the idea of having to stay in one place, and Zayn hated traveling, reserving a special level of hatred for the majority of Southern California because he is an antisocial vampire. By the end of it, Summer was exasperated with the both of them. Separation really was the best option. Doesn’t mean that Zayn never misses what they once had, though.

“You could always volunteer at Summer’s school,” Gigi says. “I remember seeing something in the weekly email about vacancies on the Events Committee.”

“Oh no,” Zayn says. His entire heart fills with dread. “That bloody Parent Teacher Association?”

Gigi claps her hands together and grins. “Yes! The PTA.”

“That sounds like an awful idea.”

“Why?” Gigi presses. “Because it would require you to leave your flat once a month?”

“No,” Zayn retorts petulantly, even though that might have something to do with it. “Because everyone knows that the PTA is for Nappy Valley mummies.”

“Rude,” Gigi says. “And also false. The email said the new head of the PTA Events Committee is this handsome young father -- I forget his name. And isn’t your friend Liam on the PTA?”

“Liam is Chair of the Marketing Committee, yes,” Zayn acknowledges reluctantly. Zayn’s never been particularly involved with Parent Associations. He’s not the type to sit on committees and hit up his friends for money so the school can get a new fucking footie pitch. Gigi was the one that insisted that Summer enroll in the exorbitantly priced American school near Regent’s Park in the first place. As far as Zayn can tell, most of the other parents are old, rich, American ex-pats who never bothered to learn about the UK educational system. Zayn and fellow parent Liam Payne are both exceptions to this rule, obviously, so it made sense they found each other and became fast friends. “Liam is also a house dad who spends half his day telecommuting and the other half freaking out about his daughter’s IB exams.”

“Hey, idiot, so do you,” Gigi says. “Just put in an application and go to a meeting. What’s the worst that could happen? It’ll give you something to do and maybe you’ll make some new friends in the process.”

“I don’t need new friends,” Zayn says, even though he’s not entirely sure he believes the words he’s saying. He may be a bit lonelier than he’d ever admit out loud. “And you can tell Summer I’m not sad or whatever the hell it is she’s been saying. I’ve been thinking about getting a dog, actually.”

“There’s no room in that flat for a pitbull, Zayn,” Gigi answers. She really does know him very well. “But there is room for the PTA in your heart.”

Zayn frowns and turns off the Skype call before Gigi can annoy him any further.

 

Zayn doesn’t think there’s an airport he loathes more in the world than London Heathrow. But alas, every January, July, August, and December he must venture out to west London and await his doom. Zayn’s got text alerts for Summer’s flight and at some point he realizes it’s scheduled to come in early, so Zayn grabs his reading glasses and an Octavia Butler book and takes the train to the terminals.

The train ride itself is fine, but the airport is busy and hellish, as per usual. Zayn stands around outside while he waits, knowing that Summer will have to go through bloody customs and that’s always a clusterfuck, but then it starts to drizzle so he heads inside to loiter by one of the currency exchange kiosks.

When Zayn finally spots Summer through the crowd, it feels like a mini explosion of happiness in his chest. She’s struggling with all of her things -- a huge purple suitcase big enough to hide a body, then a Nike duffel bag for her sports things, and some weird probably designer backpack with studs all over it -- but she grins, huge and relieved, when she sees her father.

Zayn always thought he was smart growing up, but that was before he had his daughter. Lana Summer Malik honestly makes Zayn feel like an incompetent moron 97% of the time. She’s quick-witted, almost freakishly clever, and startling independent, even for a teenager. And she’s quite sporty, too, obsessed with playing basketball and footie. She’s a godsend. She’s clear skies after a rainstorm and fireworks exploding over a California coastline. Zayn still can’t believe she’s his child, the magical byproduct of his fleeting relationship with Gigi Hadid.

Zayn thinks Summer can get into Oxford or Cambridge no problem if she wants to, but knowing how fantastical and random life is, Summer will probably end up being a high fashion model like her mother. Zayn feels quite uncomfortable thinking about his daughter in such terms, but he knows Summer’s got the build for it. She has her mother’s height, her father’s willowy frame, and a face that melds Gigi’s pout and Zayn’s fine bone structure. Summer actually looks like a blonde, Baby Spice version of her Aunt Waliyha. Gigi’s already started talking about setting up a meeting with IMG on Summer’s behalf like some sort of strange end of term reward. Zayn doesn’t care whether Summer becomes the next Prime Minister or starts modeling for Jean Paul Gaultier -- although obviously Summer should become the next PM and spearhead a new, socialist era in British politics -- but he draws the line at modeling before she turns eighteen. Victoria’s Secret and _Sports Illustrated_ can wait a few years, cheers.

“Hey there, birdie,” Zayn says, walking up to his daughter and slinging an arm around her shoulders. He kisses her cheek and the top of her head, sighing when she brings an arm around his middle and squeezes. She smells like she always does -- like those soap bomb things that stain the bathtub with purple and glitter -- but also a bit stale, like sitting around for ten hours on an airplane. She seems a little taller than Zayn remembers, too, at eye level with Zayn, now. She’s probably going to end up being taller than he is, not that it’s a huge accomplishment, especially with a mother who’s 5’10”.

“Hiya, Baba. Missed you,” Summer says. She squeezes again, like when she was a little girl naively confident that her Baba was the most brilliant man in the world. When she pulls away, it’s to fidget with all of her bags. Zayn grabs the dead human sized roller and slings her Nike duffle over his shoulder before leading them outside. It’s pissing rain and Summer frowns. Summer doesn’t scowl often because she’s actually quite cheery like her mother, but when she does, she looks just like Zayn. “I was hoping I brought some California back with me.”

“You’re superhuman, but alas you’re no Storm,” Zayn says over the pounding rain. “How was your flight?”

Summer lifts a shoulder and follows Zayn over to the line for cabs. Thankfully it’s not too long, so they’re able to hail one and lug all of Summer’s things into it fairly quickly. Summer brushes wet strands of hair out of her face and sits next to Zayn, leaning against his shoulder and getting his coat damp. “The flight was fine. They ran out of pasta and I had to content myself with a shitty curry instead.”

“Bloody Virgin Atlantic,” Zayn says as he slings an arm around her middle and settles back for the drive along the M4. “No turbulence?”

“Some as we were flying over Colorado, and then again when we were over Canada,” Summer says. She always sounds very American when she’s been with her mum (or “mom,” as Gigi always insists on being called) for a few weeks and she definitely sounds it now, dragging her syllables out lazily like a proper Valley Girl. “But it wasn’t too bad. I watched like five hours of telly.”

“The most important thing,” Zayn replies. “So how is everyone? Your mum? Your Aunt Bella and Uncle Anwar?”

“All good. Same as my Oma, she sends her love,” Summer answers. “It was nice seeing everyone, especially all the cousins. And Mom took me to look at universities. We visited USC, UCLA, Pepperdine, flew up to NorCal for Stanford, and -- uh. Some private schools that I’ve already forgotten the name of.”

Zayn snorts. “Glad they made such an impression on you.”

“No point going somewhere that doesn’t have a good footie or basketball program,” Summer reasons.

Zayn hums. He’s not sure what he’s going to do when Summer goes away for uni so he doesn’t like to think about it more than he absolutely has to. He’s still hoping she’ll go somewhere in the UK, preferably in London since there are so many amazing options just a tube ride away, but Summer’s stuck on the idea of being a student-athlete, and he knows there are tons of options stateside. At least Zayn doesn’t have to worry about paying ridiculous American tuition rates. Gigi’s dad put cash aside for Summer’s uni expenses the minute she was born. “Well, you still have plenty of time to figure it out.”

“Suppose so,” Summer says, scrunching her nose. Zayn pokes it and Summer swats at him, grinning so big her eyes crinkle in the corners. “Really have missed you, Baba. It’s never the same being without you, even though it is great seeing Mom.”

“I know,” Zayn says, kissing her hairline again. “Missed you loads, too.”

“Have you been able to work more on the book without me there distracting you?” Summer says. “Or is the task of finishing the next great law book still exceptionally dull?”

“I’ve been having a rough go of it, yeah,” Zayn admits. “Maybe you being around will inspire me.”

“Maybe,” Summer shrugs. “Though I doubt it. We’ll probably just watch a lot of basketball since the season is going to start up in a few months. But Mom says you’re going to be doing more stuff in your free time. Something about the PTA at school?”

Zayn blinks quizzically at his daughter. He hadn’t thought about the PTA since Gigi brought it up two weeks ago. He’d been very busy being bored, ignoring his emails, and doing nothing. “What?”

“She said you applied for their Events Committee,” Summer continues. She’s peering at Zayn as though he’s particularly thick, and she looks so much like her mother that it’s making Zayn feel anxious. “She showed me the welcome email and everything. She said you were really excited about the opportunity to make new friends. None of this is ringing any bells?”

Zayn blinks quizzically at Summer again, and then it all slots into place.

Most of the time Zayn feels extremely fond of Gigi. He thinks about all of the fun they had together for the brief time they were married and how kind and gentle she is. She’s beautiful and not just physically. She’s got such a nurturing soul and she helped Zayn see that he doesn’t have to be a prickly bastard all of the time, even though being a prickly bastard is generally more fun than being nice. Zayn learned a lot about himself during their marriage, and most of the time when Zayn thinks of Gigi, he marvels over how he’ll always, _always_ love her.

This is not one of those moments.

Zayn takes a deep breath and bangs his head against the side of the cab. “Your mum is such a meddling shit.”

 

As Zayn suspected, Gigi did in fact submit an application to the Parent Teacher Association on his behalf. Nor does she particularly feel bad about it when Zayn Skypes her the following day. Gigi mostly lives in New York whenever Summer isn’t with her, and it’s still fairly early when Zayn is able to get a hold of her, the sun just barely starting to slant through her windows.

“Of course I sent in an application for you,” Gigi says, examining her cuticles. She’s wearing a face mask and appears to have a fresh manicure, but she doesn’t look entirely pleased with it, picking at her nail bed and sighing a lot. Zayn would try to feign empathy, but as it is he’s distracted by his annoyance. “You need a hobby and you didn’t suggest any decent alternatives.”

Zayn tries not to grumble. He knows that Gigi is just looking out for him, but her can-do, occasionally presumptive attitude is what used to drive him crazy when they were still married. “When were you going to tell me about it? An hour before the first meeting?”

Gigi levels Zayn with an unimpressed look. “Don’t be so dramatic. I hardly think this is going to be a huge inconvenience in your life. They seem quite excited to have you, actually. Probably because they don’t know how much of a sullen, annoying shit you are. Here, I’ll forward all of the emails.”

Zayn waits for Gigi to do just that and then he settles against the sofa and reads through the correspondence. The flat is quiet, save for the low thrum of activity from the dishwasher. Summer is out at the park with one of her friends, probably playing kick-around and being a general badass. There’s less than two weeks before school starts up again and Summer’s only got three full years left before she’s off for uni. Zayn’s been telling her to appreciate her free time while she’s still got it.

Gigi did a pretty good job with Zayn’s application to the PTA, although Zayn’s miffed that the school’s basic Parent’s Association even has an application process at all. Still, Gigi makes Zayn’s career sound very impressive. She’s listed his honors degree from LSE, his certificate from The City Law School and his PhD, and she’s written a very glowing summation of his time working for the UN, even though it sounds far more impressive than what he was actually doing on a day-to-day basis, which mainly consisted of writing emails, inconspicuously drinking during his lunch breaks, and trying not to cry during meetings. Zayn’s a little surprised Gigi’s got such a good handle on his current gig with UCL, too, even though Zayn started working there after they separated. But she’s able to perfectly articulate how applying for research funding isn’t all too different from helping to find funding for school events, which Zayn hadn’t much thought of before. Maybe Gigi’s the one who should have a PhD.

Someone named Harry Styles processed Zayn’s application and extended the formal welcome onto the PTA. Gigi replied enthusiastically enough and said that the Malik family is looking forward to meeting him once the school year starts.

“Do you know this Styles person?” Zayn asks, closing his email tab. “Is he one of the parents you’ve chatted with before?”

“No, he’s new,” Gigi says. Even though Gigi doesn’t even live in London, she’s always been very involved in Summer’s school affairs. She flies out for all of the parent-teacher meetings and she’s volunteered for campus events in the past. Her dad hosted a lucrative fundraiser once so Gigi’s been on the Dean’s speed-dial list ever since. It’s always made Zayn very grateful because he hates doing all of that stuff. He prefers going to Summer’s sports matches and helping her with her revising. He’d rather do that than actually have to sit in a room full of parents who’ve never helped with their kids’ homework a day in their lives and chat about school  trips and parties and metaphorically compare how big their dicks are. “Remember how I said they’ve got a new Events Coordinator? That’s him. Harry Styles just moved from LA to London. His son is the same age as Summer.”

“From LA?” Zayn repeats. “Why?”

Gigi shrugs. “Didn’t ask. But David and my mom both know him. He’s a pretty big songwriter and music producer. Like Grammy-nomination big.”

Zayn, who spent years of his life researching the nuances of human rights law, often feels like he knows very little about anything outside of comic books and how much it sucks to work at NGOs. So instead of even pretending like he cares, Zayn just says, “That sounds nice.”

“It’s kind of weird that he’s choosing to get so involved in his son’s school,” Gigi continues. “Cute, heartwarming, and inspiring, but weird. I think you should talk to him. He’s around our age and he’s a single dad -- I asked David.”

“I’m starting to get insulted that you think I’m so friendless,” Zayn says, even though he can only think of four friends off the top of his head when pressed, one of them being his cousin and the other his ex-wife. “I’m going to develop a complex.”

“But you _are_ friendless and you _do_ have a complex,” Gigi replies. “That’s the whole problem, Zayn. Ugh, whatever. I’ll talk to you later. I’ve got to get ready for a shoot in Brooklyn.”

Gigi ends the call and Zayn stares at his laptop screen so long it goes dark.

 

The first PTA meeting is a week before classes start for the autumn semester. Zayn almost talks himself out of going, but Summer has to be on campus for a sports orientation anyway, so she gently cajoles him into leaving the flat.

The PTA meetings are held in a high-tech room that seems better suited for a James Bond film than a school. It’s got one of those weird glass displays that are basically for fancy PowerPoint presentations on one wall, and against another they have a table completely laden down with food. There’s tea and freshly squeezed organic orange juice and tiny cucumber sandwiches and gluten-free biscuits and fucking macarons. Zayn isn’t sure how many people are in the PTA, but the display seems a little over-the-top.

Zayn suddenly and viscerally hates everything about Summer’s school and curses Gigi for insisting that their daughter attend this particular overpriced hellhole.

Zayn’s grateful to notice that Liam Payne’s already sitting at the large conference table in the center of the room and that there’s a vacant spot next to him. Zayn makes a beeline for Liam, who looks up from his cucumber sandwich and smiles.

“Zayn!” Liam exclaims from around a mouthful of food. Zayn feels himself melt with fondness almost against his will. Liam’s the only other parent at this school that Zayn has met and legitimately liked. They’re around the same age and their daughters played sports together although Liam’s girl, Jessica, is two years older. “Didn’t think I would see you here!”

“You can blame Gigi for this one,” Zayn says as he slings his bag over the side of the chair and sits. “She signed me up against my will.”

Liam snorts. “Trying to get you out of your flat, then?”

“Suppose so,” Zayn says. Just as he opens his mouth to ask after Liam’s newborn son, there’s a huge peel of laughter and a blur of blonde hair.

“Niall!” Liam cries, opening his arms and hugging a chortling blonde man. “Good to see you, mate!”

“And you!” the blonde man -- probably Niall -- says. His accent is thick and unmistakably Irish. Considering Zayn’s mum’s family is, too, the familiar lilt immediately puts Zayn at ease. “You’re looking more muscular than I last remembered. Been lifting weights along with the new baby?”

Liam’s warm, brown eyes crinkle. “Mostly the baby, if I’ll be honest with you.”

Niall laughs again, this loud cackle of a thing, and then he turns to Zayn. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt the two of you. I’m Niall! My son’s eight.”

“Zayn,” Zayn says, thrusting his hand out for Niall to shake. “My daughter is fifteen.”

“Fifteen!” Niall exclaims. Zayn gets the impression that Niall thinks in exclamation points. “Wow. Can’t imagine having a teenager. I don’t ever want Peadar to grow up. That’s my son’s name -- Peadar Rowan Horan. I want him to be a baby forever!”

“He’s eight,” Liam points out. “That’s hardly a baby.”

Niall scoffs. “You’re just jealous because you’re old.”

“Excuse you,” Liam replies politely. But Liam always sounds polite. Zayn doesn’t think Liam could be rude if he tried. “We’re the same age.”

Niall seems poised to retort but people begin making their way to the conference table with plates of food so Niall slides into a seat on Zayn’s right. Zayn eyeballs the spread again and is wondering if he has enough time to steal a macaron when a tall white man makes his way to the front of the room where the dumb glass presentation wall is and claps his hands in front of him.

“Hello!” the man says. He’s got long, chestnut colored hair and is wearing a ridiculous wide-brim hat and Chelsea boots. He makes Zayn think of a porn-version of a pirate, his ruffled shirt half-unbuttoned and his pants so tight the fabric seems to cling to his thighs. Zayn may or may not marvel over how impressive the man’s crotch situation is, too. Zayn’s only human, after all. “Hello, if I could have your attention? I’d like to start on time, please.”

The room falls quiet and the man beams. He has very white teeth. Zayn finds it moderately unnerving. “Hello, everyone. My name is Harry Styles and I’m the new Co-Chair for the Parent Teacher Association. I also head the Events Committee. Aiden is in Germany for the time being, so it’s just me for this orientation meeting. Welcome!”

People call out greetings with varying levels of enthusiasm. Zayn looks at the catering table where the macarons sit, mocking him, and says nothing.

“I figured the best way to kick off the meeting is with introductions and a little exercise,” Styles says, grinning like a particularly earnest madman. “So everyone, please, stand up! Let’s get our blood circulation going.”

Zayn suddenly gets flashbacks to all of the stupid trainings he’s gone to where people have made him demonstrate what communication looks like by asking him to pretend to be a fish. Zayn hates pretending to be a fish, or discussing communication, or discussing anything with anyone at all -- minus Summer, of course. Harry Styles, this porn pirate of a human being, seems like the kind of person who loves to talk and loves to incorporate acting bullshit into simple introductions. Zayn wants to stand up, eat a macaron, walk out of his daughter’s school, and never return.

Instead he stands up, grabs a macaron, and sullenly returns to standing between Liam and Niall.

“I want you to say your name and an adjective that starts with the first letter of your first name, tell us what grade your child is in, and then do a motion that represents you as a person,” Styles says. “I’ll show you! My name is Harry ‘Happy’ Styles, my son Jeremy is a sophomore, and this is my motion!” And then Harry twirls in place and nearly falls over. Niall somehow manages to turn a snicker into a low cough.

“The catch is that you have to repeat the information of the people who came before you,” Styles says. “We’ll go around the circle.” Styles turns to a red-haired woman on his left. “Can you start?”

“I’m ‘Magnificient’ Melissa,” the woman says in a heavy Texas accent. “Our Thomas is a junior. And I think my thing will be this.” Melissa mimes lassoing an animal. Zayn sobs inside.

“That’s amazing,” Styles says. “But you’ve got to repeat my information, too. Do you remember it?”

“You’re Harry ‘Happy’ Styles,” Melissa recites. “And this is your dance.” Melissa twirls in place, her skirt billowing around her ankles.

“Great job, thank you for sharing,” Styles says. “Next?”

And so it goes around the table. People embarrass themselves. Zayn laments his existence, eats his sweet, and wishes he could have a cigarette. He also tries to think of adjectives that start with the letter “Z” that aren’t the word “zany.” He got enough of being called “Zany Zayn” in sixth form, actually.

Finally it comes around to Niall, who dutifully recites everyone else’s information and accompanies them all with their respective dumb dances. “I’m ‘Neat’ Niall,” Niall says, waving his arms around like an octopus. “That’s my dance, by the way. My son’s eight, I dunno what that means in American.”

Styles, to his credit, laughs. “Your son’s in the third grade, Nialler. He told us both this morning, remember?” Styles then turns to Zayn. “And you, sir?”

Zayn tries not to heave a giant sigh, but he kind of does anyway. Then he starts rattling off names and half-heartedly doing the dances. For not the first time, he’s extremely grateful for his good memory. “Happy Harry. Magnificent Melissa. Courageous Courtney. Jolly Jackie. Saucy Susana. Lucky Loretta. Achieving Allison. And Neat Niall.” Zayn starts doing the macarena because he can’t think of anything else. “My name is Zayn. I can’t think of any decent adjectives that start with the letter ‘Z.’ My daughter Summer is in the tenth grade. Is there anything else?”

“Zany,” Liam puts in. “Zany Zayn.”

Zayn frowns and Liam looks dejected. “No.”

“Zippy?” Niall tries. Zayn just looks at him.

“Zesty?” Styles suggests. “I like that word.”

Zayn thinks ‘zesty’ describes a pasta sauce more than it does his personality, but he’ll take it. This whole exercise is a lie anyway. “Yeah, sure.”

“Zesty Zayn!” Styles exclaims. Zayn isn’t sure how much more of his enthusiasm he’s going to be able to take. It’s very early in the morning and Zayn hates mornings and people and interacting with people in the morning. “Excellent. Thank you for sharing!”

Zayn nods. Then he breaks the circle again to get another macaron.

 

The rest of the meeting is really, really weird.

Granted, Zayn knows nothing about how these sorts of Parent Associations work beyond a few skimmed blog posts. This was always more of Gigi’s thing. But Zayn does know what academia is like, and he knows what working for big agencies is like, too.

The PTA somehow manages to be more annoying and ineffective than both.

Most of the PTA members are still away on holiday, so the meeting is primarily made up of newer members. Liam, who heads the Marketing Committee, gives a report on how they’ve helped increase enrollment by ramping up their advertising efforts, and then the larger group spends a fair amount of time talking about community service days throughout the school year. Zayn actually rather enjoys this portion of the agenda, because he thinks a lot of the kids at this school are rich, spoiled brats who need to learn the importance of volunteerism and getting outside of the sheltered bubble their parents have created. But then one of the parents makes an ignorant comment about people who live outside of Zone 1 and that essentially kills the discussion.

Styles then hands out a few worksheets and discusses upcoming events for the year. Apparently, the PTA’s Events Committee typically raises several million pounds every year from its fundraisers and related activities. Zayn’s eyes bulge as he goes through the budget and projections. Zayn wants to know who the hell these “anonymous” parents are that can afford to donate £50,000 on top of the already steep tuition, and then he wants to rob them.

“We’re looking to build on our successes from last year’s fundraising,” Styles says. “You can see that there’s a slight increase in our projected income to help pay for the new sports facility. And, of course, everyone on the PTA is expected to contribute to our fundraising efforts -- not just the Events Committee! So for the last few minutes of the meeting, I’d like for you all to brainstorm five people you can ask for a donation this year. Just five to start. And remember, they don’t have to be high rollers. Any little bit counts. I’ll collect your ideas before you leave. Thanks, everyone!”

Zayn turns to his piece of paper and jots down the first five names that come to mind. Because Zayn has no shame, four of them include the surname “Hadid.”

 

Once the meeting concludes, Styles sidles up to Zayn and takes the now vacant seat at his right. This close, his good looks are a little disarming. He’s got tattoos all over his chest and arms, fantastical and unrelated pieces, and when he smiles at Zayn, it’s with his whole face.

“Hey,” Styles says, extending a hand. “The incomparable Zayn Malik. We emailed a bit.”

“You were actually emailing my ex-wife, but yeah,” Zayn says, taking Styles’ hand and giving it a good, solid squeeze. “We’ve still got a joint email account. But pleased to meet you nonetheless.”

“Likewise,” Styles answers. “So your daughter -- that’s Lana Malik, right? The new Captain of JV basketball?”

Zayn nods. “She goes by her middle name, actually. Summer.”

“Summer,” Styles repeats, nodding to himself. “Awesome. Well, our kids are in the same grade and they both love basketball. Jeremy’s new and he’s a bit shy. I was wondering if you could talk to your Summer? Encourage her to help see him around?”

Zayn nods. Summer’s one of the friendliest people he knows, future Head Girl material, so she’ll probably chat with Jeremy Styles completely on her own volition, especially if Jeremy loves basketball. Summer will probably end up marrying a damn basketball, she loves the sport so much. But Styles doesn’t know that. “Of course.”

Styles lets out a relieved breath and puts a hand on Zayn’s shoulder, squeezing him. “Great. Thanks so much. Well, I’ve got to get going. But I’ll email you about some things, yeah? Just some ideas about the Events Committee?”

Styles stands without waiting for an answer. Zayn looks at the spot where Styles was touching him, blinking uncomprehendingly. 

 

“How was it?”

Zayn shrugs. He and Summer decided to walk home today. Their flat is a brisk twenty minute stroll from her school. Today they’re not moving quite as quickly, but Summer’s got her sports bag on her shoulder and Zayn’s feeling stiff from sitting around all afternoon. Getting older is kind of annoying.

“It was fine. Did you know your school’s PTA raises millions of pounds every year?”

Summer hums. “Yeah, Mom’s mentioned it a few times. Apparently it’s nowhere close to what some of the established, big name schools in Manhattan rake in.”

Zayn feels vaguely ill. “You know, I never imagined that I would help contribute to systemic inequality within the educational system. I wanted you to go to a state-funded school.”

“You can always blame Mom,” Summer suggests. “Or you can just concentrate on how you’re helping me get a new sports facility so unparalleled in quality that I will naturally become an Olympian.”

“So long as you play for England. Although I don’t understand why that all costs so much,” Zayn says. “And why does your school even need a brand new sports facility? It makes no sense. Your teams don’t even win enough to justify the expense.”

“Someone’s dad suggested it and said he’d match the donations.” Summer shrugs and then grumbles when her bag strap slips down her shoulder. “You already know everyone at that damn school is crazy, Baba.”

“ _Language_ , birdie,” Zayn scolds. “And you’re not crazy.”

“Everyone’s crazy except me,” Summer says brightly, grinning at her father. “So you’ll be working on the big gala in October?”

“And the holiday party,” Zayn replies. “And something for Thanksgiving? Maybe prom. I dunno. I don’t want to do it.”

“But you’ll get to hang out with Harry Styles,” Summer says. “He’s the new PTA event guy, right? Hot shot music producer or whatever. He dropped his son off today at practice. Everyone was talking about how fit he is. A real DILF.”

Zayn thinks back to Styles, with his long, dark hair and potentially giant cock. Zayn wonders if Styles’ ideas for the Events Committee will include exchanging nude pictures. “I don’t think he’s very fit,” Zayn lies. “And you shouldn’t either. You shouldn’t think anyone is fit and you certainly shouldn’t be using the word ‘DILF’. You’re fifteen. Do you even listen to me when I tell you to watch your language?”

“I’m fifteen, not blind,” Summer corrects. “Plus I’d rather everyone talked about him than you. ‘Summer, I want to call your father Daddy, too.’ _Revolting_.”

Zayn silently agrees. The way some of Summer’s friends look at him makes him feel deeply uncomfortable. Last year, one of the graduating girls had actually hit on Zayn when he came to pick Summer up from school. The girl then gleefully told Zayn that she was going to UCL in the fall. Zayn had never been so pleased for his upcoming sabbatical. “Well, whatever saves us both from mental scarring.”

“Mr. Styles has got great hair,” Summer continues. “I love the color. Do you think I should go back to being a brunette?”

“I think you should dye your hair any bloody color you like.”

Summer grins, no doubt thinking of her Nan’s photo albums full of Zayn’s various hair experimentations. Zayn was very wild in his youth, until someone told him it might be best not to have lilac hair if he wanted to work for a major human rights firm. “Maybe I will, Baba.”

“Except gray,” Zayn says. “I think I’ve got that one covered.”

Summer snorts and knocks into Zayn’s shoulder. He knocks back and then presses their arms together, grateful that his daughter is cool, but not so cool she refuses to hold her father’s arm every once in a while.

 

In September Styles and the other PTA Co-Chair, a mild-mannered musician named Aiden, decide to host a small get-together at Aiden’s house in Bloomsbury. Aiden’s got a ten-year-old son, a solemn piano prodigy who looks very annoyed to have a bunch of strange adults in his house. Zayn, who similarly hates being around strange adults, understands the boy’s reservations on a deep, fundamental level.

Zayn also isn’t entirely sure why he’s invited. He shows up late and Aiden and his boy greet him at the door and lead him out back. There’s a table out on the grass with neat placeholders and big pitchers of lemonade at either end. Aiden and his wife hold court at one end of the table and Styles is at the other. Other than that, Liam’s there, as is Niall, “Achieving Allison,” another musician father named Matt, and a chic Parisian mother who isn’t officially on the PTA but is known for her love of the arts and extraordinarily deep pockets. Zayn remembers reading about how parents’ associations frequently develop cliques, and Zayn can’t help but think that he somehow stumbled into the group of “cool kids,” this circle of artsy parents and their high-rolling friends.

“Zayn!” Styles calls, patting the empty seat next to him. “We’re so glad you could finally join us.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Zayn says, walking across the grass and plopping down next to Styles. “I walked here and underestimated how long it would take.”

This is not entirely true. Mostly Zayn’s late because he didn’t want to come. Summer threatened to cut off his beard in the middle of the night if he didn’t leave and at least attempt to be social. Zayn’s starting to think that Summer’s more invested in the PTA than he is.

“Well, it happens,” Styles says, smiling his most bewitching smile. When he talks, his voice is low and almost conspiratorial. Everyone else at the table had looked up when Zayn first arrived, but now they’ve mostly resumed their chatter, so it almost feels like Zayn and Styles are alone. “The most important thing is that you’re here now. So let’s chat, yeah?”

Zayn feels a little lost whenever he looks at Styles for too long. He isn’t sure why and he doesn’t like to think about it. So he ducks his gaze and shrugs. “Yeah, sure.”

“Listen, Zayn, I’ve been wanting to tell you that I’m super pleased to have you on the Events Committee,” Styles says. “I think you’re going to be a real asset this year.”

“Thanks,” Zayn answers slowly. The Events Committee hasn’t really done much yet besides send around useless emails and talk about how they should have dinner, so Zayn isn’t entirely sure how Styles has the impression that Zayn is capable of any real greatness. Zayn can’t even finish writing his damn book.

“We’ve set an ambitious goal for ourselves this year, but I think we can do it,” Styles continues. He talks really slowly. Zayn, who received a PhD in a field many people consider to be mind-numbingly dull, has a hard time paying attention. “But I’m a little worried, too. Everyone is on board in August and September when being on the PTA is still new and shiny. But what I’m worried about is February arriving and it’s just Aiden and I at the meetings. I don’t want that. I don’t want that for the PTA and I don’t want that for our kids.”

Zayn hums noncommittally and pours himself a glass of lemonade.

“I feel like I can count on you to be there, Zayn,” Styles says. “I feel like you understand how important the PTA is to the school community.”

Zayn is not entirely sure when Styles developed that perception of him, but he isn’t particularly upset about it. He’s intrigued, mostly. “What are you asking, really?”

“The Events Committee is arguably the most important sub-committee on the PTA,” Styles says. “It’s a good way to become one of the Co-Chairs and find your way onto the Board of Directors.”

“Oh,” Zayn replies. He’s both flattered and confused. “I’m not sure if I want to be a Co-Chair or Boardmember. I haven’t given much thought about what I plan to do for the PTA when my sabbatical is over.”

“I hadn’t thought about it much, either, until the opportunity presented itself,” Styles admits. “But we could use someone with your perspective on the Board of Directors.”

Zayn didn’t know that Styles is on the Board of Directors. It strikes him as a little strange that a parent who’s so new to the community has already been presented with so many opportunities. Zayn wonders if Styles is sitting on a mound of cash. He probably is if Gigi’s ex-stepdad knows him and if he’s been nominated for Grammy’s. Zayn’s so out of his depth around these people. He’s not even a fucking tenured professor.

But that’s not Zayn’s most pressing question at the moment. “My perspective?”

Styles huffs out a breath. He suddenly looks annoyed. “Please don’t make me spell it out, Zayn.”

Zayn thinks back to everything he knows about the school’s Board. The Vice President is the school’s Founder, and the Treasurer is an alum who made their way to the London Stock Exchange. There’s always two seats reserved for parents from the PTA, usually the Co-Chairs. Zayn knows there must be loads more people on there, but he honestly has been so far removed from all of the politics that he can’t even begin to know what those lot do besides raise the bloody tuition every other year.

“This isn’t a diversity thing, is it?” Zayn asks hesitantly. Styles just looks at Zayn, which is certainly an answer in itself. Zayn sighs. “I don’t want to join the Board of Directors just to serve as the token Asian.”

“You wouldn’t be the token Asian,” Styles protests, albeit halfheartedly. “I just -- I think having someone like you on the Board would be extremely helpful.”

Zayn desperately wishes he could have a cigarette, but he gets the impression that Harry bloody Styles wouldn’t appreciate him lighting up right now. “Sounds like tokenism to me, mate.”

Styles narrows his eyes. “I’m just trying to look out for my son -- and _your_ daughter. I’ve looked around the Board and should something come up, there aren’t too many people on there that would champion for either of our kids. But if you’re not interested, then you can just say that, and I’ll drop it.”

Zayn picks up his placeholder and props it on the side of his plate. “Then let’s drop it for now, yeah?”

“Right,” Styles nods, but he doesn’t accompany it with his usual blinding smile.

 

A few days later, Styles asks Zayn to join him on campus so he can teach Zayn the wonders of the database. Styles brings Zayn a cup of coffee and they meet in the library, where fellow PTA parent Niall Horan volunteers every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. The database is an old, clunky system, one totally at odds with the school’s steep tuition costs and the sleek James Bond room the PTA usually meets in.

“Can we start a fund to purchase a new fucking constituents database?” Zayn asks as he sits at Styles’ side and watches him tab through entries. The layout hurts Zayn’s eyes. It’s not Cloud-based and Zayn has suspicions that it’s not relational at all, meaning that the database is hardly better than a bloody Excel spreadsheet.

“Language,” Styles mutters, even though there’s nobody in the library besides Niall and a handful of teenagers, all of whom aren’t exactly being quiet. “And I wish we could. But the Board is insistent that our priority for the year is fundraising for the new sports facility.”

Zayn barely resists saying, “Fuck the sports facility.” Instead, he hums and puts his chin on his fist. “So every parent and donor gets their own entry?”

“Yes, and all of their payments and donations are entered into these fields here,” Styles says, gesturing with his pointer finger. “We tag their donations by campaign. Any additional notes are entered here.”

“But the individual entries aren’t linked,” Zayn points out. “Like, mine and my ex’s pages aren’t tied to her father’s.”

“No, it’s not that sophisticated,” Styles admits. “Information like that goes into the notes field. And before you ask, the database isn’t linked to the accounting software, either. A parent volunteer has to cross-check them.”

“That’s a total waste of time,” Zayn says. “We raise millions of pounds. We can afford to customize our own bloody database.”

Styles raises a shoulder. “I’m not disagreeing with you. In LA, the middle school PTA had a parent who was a database consultant. Free upgrades every two years. It made customization and segmentation a breeze.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow. It’s not like Zayn loves databases or anything. But he’s an academic and databases are par the course. He needed them to write his dissertation and he needed them to get a head start on turning that dissertation into a publishable manuscript. It boggles his mind that this bloody school would prioritize a sports facility over a database that helps them with their fundraising.

“You know, if this is something that’s important to you, perhaps I could suggest an agenda item for our next Board meeting and you can present your case,” Styles says, with all the subtlety of a thrashing bull.

“I’m not joining the bloody Board of Directors, Styles,” Zayn grumbles.

“I didn’t ask,” Styles huffs. “I just said you could come sit in on a meeting and talk about the database.”

“You kind of did,” Zayn insists.

“I really didn’t.”

“Uh huh.”

“Why are you so disagreeable?” Styles asks.

“I’m not disagreeable,” Zayn says. “I just don’t want to be on the Board.”

Styles -- paragon of maturity that he is -- rolls his eyes at Zayn. “Yes, yes, I know. Well, if you’ll _collect_ yourself, we can continue going through the database. I want you to help Loretta with the coding.”

Zayn puts his hands in between his thighs and counts to ten. He has no clue why Styles is grating on his nerves so much, but Zayn clamps down on the urge to tell Styles to shove the database and the entire Board of Directors up his arse. “Whatever you need me to do, Styles,” Zayn says instead.

Styles purses his lips. For someone who is getting his way, he doesn’t look pleased. “Good.”

 

Weeks pass. Summer goes to class and basketball practice and Zayn agonizes over his book but doesn’t complete it.

Instead, Zayn gradually discovers that Harry Styles is, in fact, the devil.

And, like the devil, Styles is exceptionally charming and probably very well-intentioned. He brings baked goods to their Events meetings. He keeps neat and extremely detailed minutes on Google Docs and shows Zayn more tricks regarding the school’s clunky database. He smiles a lot and wears tight jeans that are very distracting. On the surface, he is everything that the Co-Chair of a Parent’s Association _should_ be.

But what Zayn very quickly ascertains is that Styles can be all of those things and also somehow manage to embody every single horrible stereotype about PTA parents at the same time.

Styles also seems to be cross with Zayn and Zayn can’t entirely understand why. Zayn’s doing everything that’s asked of him. He dutifully helps Loretta clean up the database. He calls vendors and keeps neat spreadsheets full of contact information and price estimates. He drafts the sponsorship packet for the annual gala and cleans up the list of businesses they’ll tap for silent auction items. He reaches out to Gigi and together they agree to purchase a table at the annual gala. He gets Gigi’s father, Mohamed, to pledge a decent-sized donation, too. It’s only a few months into the semester, and while most parents are still orienting themselves to the PTA and its endless list of useless committees, Zayn’s already going above and fucking beyond.

And instead of complimenting Zayn on a job well done, Styles is acting like a passive aggressive pissbaby. Styles writes a bland, perfunctory “Thank You” note to Zayn and Gigi for their donation, whereas “Magnificent Melissa” gets a bloody bouquet sent to her house for her contribution. Then Styles gets annoyed when Zayn does a time check at their next meeting because they’ve had a forty-five minute long discussion about what kind of present the PTA should get for some History teacher’s birthday. Styles gets annoyed when Zayn says he doesn’t think they need to spend so much time discussing who should bring snacks for the next meeting. Styles gets annoyed when Zayn suggests hiring a new DJ for the annual gala because Gigi said that the one they had last year was hot garbage. Styles gets annoyed when Zayn says getting a new database seems like a priority for the next school year and that they should start researching cloud-based software and consultants now. And, surprisingly, Styles gets annoyed when Zayn says that he thinks they have too many meetings when they could honestly just do most of this stuff over email.

Styles has no qualms about showing his displeasure, either, albeit in a petty, passive aggressive way. He ignores Zayn’s suggestions in-person and on email chains, or he replies with things like, “Thanks, Zayn, but let’s hear what the other volunteers have to say!” even though nobody else ever has any useful suggestions. He had invited Zayn to a few get-togethers after the one at Aiden’s house, meetings over coffee and the like where he not so gently badgered Zayn into joining the Board with him, but gradually he stops inviting Zayn out to dinner with Liam, Niall, and the other “cool parents” on the PTA.

Styles even sends Zayn an email about how he needs to learn how to be more of a team player. _Zayn_. He sends that email knowing that Zayn’s the only parent besides Styles himself to have perfect attendance at these godforsaken meetings. Zayn’s also the only parent to have repeatedly come in during school hours to volunteer in the main office. Zayn’s done more for the PTA than he has for his own bloody department at work, and Zayn at least receives a paycheck from UCL.

Zayn’s not sure what he’s done to deserve this blacklisting. And what’s worse is that he actually agonizes over it, trying to figure out what he’s done wrong. Did he mortally offend Styles by turning down the offer to join the school Board? Was he honestly too disagreeable when they met to go over the database? Or was Styles somehow intimidated by Zayn’s worth ethic? Could Styles read minds and tell that Zayn thought he was _Iblis_? Zayn just couldn’t figure it out.

 

Things come to a head a week before Halloween. Zayn’s on campus to help put up decorations because he’s bored and figures there’s worse things to do than paint pumpkins for an afternoon. Liam’s there, too, in paint-spattered dungarees, and he smiles when he sees Zayn. They’re in the hallway outside of the gymnasium and they can hear the pad and squeak of trainers on the rubber tiles. Two other parents had already come in to sketch out the basic haunted house scene on giant pieces of butcher paper, so all Zayn and Liam have to do is color everything in.

“Hiya,” Liam says, pushing over a roller and bucket of paint. Zayn grins, pushes up his sleeves, and gets to work.

Liam and Zayn paint in a companionable enough silence for twenty minutes or so. Liam’s not much of an artist, but he zeroes in on painting the grass. He gets strangely particular about it, too, even when Zayn encourages him to grab the brown paint and get going on the damn house already.

“Harry wanted me to talk to you, you know,” Liam says, eyes focused on rolling paint evenly onto his brush.

“Harry?” Zayn repeats blankly. He’s done the thick, black outline of a skeleton and is now moving onto painting the night sky with blues and purples and reds. He thinks it’s going to look fucking sick. “Styles, you mean?”

“Yes, Harry Styles,” Liam replies. “Do we know any other Harry’s? He’s worried about you.”

Zayn feels like a parrot when he says, “Worried about me? Whatever for?”

“He thinks you aren’t entirely committed to the PTA,” Liam answers. “He thinks you’re just doing it to prove a point to Gigi -- like it’s some sort of bet. And so he was wondering if maybe you’d rather just make a donation? And step down from the Events Committee?”

Zayn doesn’t throw his paint brush at Liam’s head, but it’s a very, very near thing. “He wants me to do _what_? What the fuck?”

“Zayn,” Liam hisses, looking up and down the hallway as though he’s expecting a four-year-old to pop out of the recycling bins. “ _Language_.”

“Oh, whatever,” Zayn says. “What do you mean, he wants me to step down? That’s bollocks, Liam, and you know it!”

Liam nods and thankfully doesn’t scold Zayn for swearing again. “Of course I do. I told him that was stupid, that you work just as hard on the PTA as he does. You might as well be his Co-Chair because the two of you do more than Aiden.”

“Styles has been riding my dick raw,” Zayn snarls. “And you know it! Ever since I told him I didn’t want to join the bloody Board of Directors. He’s had it out for me.”

Liam scratches his ribs and squints down at the grass he’s been painting for the last half hour. “It’s because he wants to shag you so badly, I think. It’s making him all angry and aggressive.”

Zayn somehow manages not to throw his paintbrush at Liam once more. He didn’t even know he was capable of such self-control. Instead, he gapes. “ _What_?”

“Is this really news to you?” Liam asks, tilting his head and examining Zayn contemplatively. “There’s so much sexual tension between the two of you. I thought maybe you were shagging after our meetings, but he yelled at me when I asked. So I guess you’re just giving him blue you-know-what’s.”

“There’s no sexual tension,” Zayn all but screeches. “What the hell are you on about?”

“He’s being mean and petty because he likes you,” Liam explains, dipping into his patient father voice. “But you keep telling him his ideas are dumb, and you didn’t want to be on the Board of Directors with him, which I think he interprets as meaning you don’t want to -- well. _You know_. And you keep trying to keep the PTA on track instead of talking about snacks, so now he’s trying to show you that he doesn’t need you.”

“I never said his ideas were dumb,” Zayn says, feeling strangely wounded. Styles may be many things -- frustrating and ridiculous being but two of them -- but he’s not _dumb_.

“Well, he feels like you have. He told me when Niall and I went over to his loft for quiche.”

“And I feel like he’s being a bully,” Zayn mutters. He’s suddenly dejected and very, very tired. “Name-calling in emails and then trying to enlist you to kick me out of the PTA. He’s acting like a sixteen-year-old Mean Girl.”

It’s stupid and horrible and makes Zayn think about being back in bloody sixth form, when every day felt like another insurmountable battle. It’s not like Zayn set out to intentionally frustrate Styles’ efforts, or whatever it is Styles seems to think. Zayn just legitimately feels like the PTA should serve the students’ interests. It doesn’t need to be a petty clique where adults get together to gossip and throw their money around and jerk each other’s dicks. But clearly that’s what it is and Zayn should learn to deal with it.

Maybe Zayn _should_ step down. Maybe he should let Styles be an arse in relative peace. Then Styles can have hour-long conversations about getting gifts for teachers, and hire his stupid awful DJ friend, and simper around eating risotto and scallops with his stupid clique of bully parents.

Zayn huffs and ignores Liam for the rest of their painting session.

 

Zayn brings the whole thing up to Summer when they go out for dinner together later that evening. Zayn always feels like he should maybe cook more, or learn how to make more than spaghetti and his mum’s chicken biryani, but Summer loves eating out after her sports practices, so this works out. Zayn was content to go to O’Neill’s, but Summer’s done well on a practice IB test, so they head to her favorite Ethiopian place a few blocks away from their flat.

Zayn finishes his recap of the day and Summer’s little frown is enough to give him pause. Zayn looks at her and feels strangely chastised. “What is it?”

“I just don’t think you’re being very fair to Mr. Styles,” Summer mutters. “He’s going through a lot right now.” She looks up at Zayn with wide, beseeching hazel eyes. It used to scare him when she was younger -- that she had the same eye shape and color as him -- but Zayn thinks he’s finally coming to terms with the fact that there’s a younger, female version of him roaming around London playing basketball and being a real life superhero. “Mr. Styles’ son -- Jeremy Styles -- he got into a huge fight with Thomas Sampson earlier this week. Ended up decking Sampson pretty good after basketball practice.”

“Thomas Sampson?” Zayn repeats, thinking of “Magnificent Melissa” on the PTA, the woman with a heavy Texan accent. “Isn’t that one of those oil boys?”

Summer nods and Zayn feels a light bulb go off in his head. He remembers looking through the school’s database next to Styles and reading through the notes on all of the high rollers because he’s nothing if not nosy. The Sampson family made its money in Texas oil and every year they donate tons and tons of it to keep the school afloat. If the Styles boy punched this Sampson kid -- one PTA parent’s kid decking another’s -- Zayn can only imagine the drama it caused. That’s an email chain he actually _wishes_ he could’ve been on.

“Have you met Mr. Styles’ son?” Summer asks.

Zayn shakes his head. “No, I don’t think I’ve even seen him. Why?”

“He’s black,” Summer says simply. “Or like, half-black, I guess. Anyway, Mr. Styles had to come up to the school, same as Mr. and Mrs. Sampson. It was this _whole_ thing, but luckily Jessica Payne was doing her service hours in the main office at the time so she overheard. The Sampsons wanted Jeremy kicked out, but one of the ninth graders had a video of what led to the fight. Thomas Sampson was annoyed that Jeremy Styles has been friendly with this senior, Meiying Qiao. I guess he’s jealous. Anyway, he called Jeremy a bunch of rude things and then he said he’d string Jeremy up on a tree. It was really, really, _really_ gross, Baba.”

Zayn gapes at his daughter. Zayn knew that this school had a severe diversity problem, one exemplified by a diversity page on their website full of smiling white children, but he had been hopeful that Summer wouldn’t be exposed to such disgusting and blatant displays of racism. Clearly that had been naive, wishful thinking.

Zayn also thinks that Styles’ statement last month about wanting someone with Zayn’s _perspective_ on the Board of Directors suddenly makes a lot more sense. Styles probably already knew his son was having a hard time with some of his classmates, and, in typical frustrating fashion, tried to recruit Zayn without outright saying why he wanted Zayn’s help.

“One of your rich asshole classmates said he would string a black classmate on a tree?” Zayn clarifies.

“Yup,” Summer says. “Thomas Sampson _is_ from Texas, as he loves to remind everyone. So the Sampsons are donating more money to get the whole thing buried, including the video, but everyone on campus has a copy. Mr. Styles was _furious_. Thomas Sampson has to do community service and take a class on sensitivity, but that’s it. And Jeremy has to do community service, too, and take an anger management course. It was part of the deal.”

“So when did this happen?” Zayn asks as a waiter comes to their table with their food. “You said earlier this week, but when? You hadn’t mentioned it to me at all.”

Summer opens her mouth and shuts it before lifting her shoulder in a shrug. She smiles at the waiter before grabbing a fork and pushing rice around on her plate. “I didn’t want you to worry,” Summer says. “I know how you are, Baba. Professor Malik, former Human Rights Attorney for the United Nations, would’ve stormed down to campus and raised hell.”

“I still might,” Zayn puts in. “This is a gross mishandling of the situation.”

Summer says, “Going down to the Dean’s would just make you mad and possibly give you a coronary. The Sampsons give too much money to the school, so their moron son can be as racist as he likes. It sucks, but that’s how it is. I told Jeremy Styles he needs to keep his head down and keep doing the best he can do in the meantime. Make himself indispensable to the varsity basketball team when there are tryouts next month, which he could totally do no problem -- I’ve seen him at shoot-around and he’s really good. Then he can hook up with Meiying and deck as many boys as he likes.”

Zayn frowns. It sounds like the sort of advice his mates used to give him back in secondary, when he’d gotten into one too many fights, toeing the line between another suspension and expulsion. It used to drive Zayn crazy, knowing that there were kids out there who could parade their ignorance around like a badge of honor. Zayn had been drawn to law out of his desire to set things to rights, to fight for a shred of equity, and then it was only natural that human rights law would be his specialization.

The law can move so slowly, but Zayn had still hoped that his daughter wouldn’t be exposed to the same injustices he’d witnessed growing up. So much for that. For not the first time, Zayn curses that he had to send Summer to this stupid American school with their stupid American insistence that racism ended when Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot in the head.

“And you think this is why Styles is so damn unpleasant in the PTA?” Zayn asks. “Because of all of this drama with the Sampsons?”

“That, and other things,” Summer says. She looks a little uncomfortable, mouth twisting like she isn’t sure whether she should elaborate.

“This is all safe between you and me, Summer,” Zayn says. “I’m not going to be gossiping about Harry bloody Styles or his son. As your mother loves to remind everyone, I have no friends to gossip to.”

Summer sighs but doesn’t seem entirely convinced. “Jeremy feels like Mr. Styles doesn’t _get_ him sometimes,” Summer says. “Like he yelled at Jeremy for punching Thomas Sampson, said that Jeremy should’ve just walked away. Jeremy says that he doesn’t think his dad realizes what it really means, having a mixed-race son. I dunno. And Jeremy feels like Mr. Styles spends too much time at the PTA when he could be coming to his practices and showing his support there. I don’t think they quite know how to talk to each other right now. And Jeremy’s still annoyed that Mr. Styles made him move from LA. It’s sad.”

Zayn frowns. “That’s unfortunate. It doesn’t give Styles a right to be a bully in the PTA, though. I’ve done nothing but try to be supportive.”

Summer shrugs but she doesn’t press the matter. She just shoves a giant piece of injera into her mouth and changes the subject, prattling on about maths and how everyone thinks the History teacher is shagging the new boy’s football coach.


	2. The Middle

Zayn does end up pulling back from activities in the PTA immediately after Halloween, but that’s less because Styles is trying to force him out and more because he’s busy. He’s on what is hopefully the final-final round of edits for his book and he’s also been writing a bit for online news sources in his spare time. That’s the one really depressing thing about human rights -- there’s always someone in the world who insists upon trampling all over them.

Zayn takes the tube to see his publishers but splurges on a car service to take him back to his flat. He’s just gotten in the town car when his phone starts to buzz in his pocket. It takes Zayn a few moments to extract it, but he smiles fondly to himself when he sees that it’s Summer. He loves the picture he has set for her contact. It’s from a vacation they took to Italy three years ago -- him, Summer, and all of the Hadids. They’d gone for gelato and Summer ended up with half of it on her face, like she was still a little kid learning how to eat without making a mess. Zayn had snapped a picture of her startled, embarrassed face without even thinking about it.

“Hello, little birdie.”

“Hiya, Baba,” Summer says. Her voice is echoing a bit funny, like she’s standing in a long, empty hallway. “How did your meeting go?” Zayn grumbles under his breath and Summer laughs. “That well, huh?”

“You know how it is,” Zayn says. “They’ve suggested a few allegedly minor revisions to The Chapter of Doom. The damn thing will never be done. But how was your day? And where are you?”

“It was fine, nothing to complain about. And I’m at school. I’m standing in the locker rooms.”

“Why’re you still on campus?” Zayn asks. “Didn’t practice end ages ago?”

“It did,” Summer admits. “And I was going to take the tube back with Amira but I ran into Jeremy Styles and we got to talking. His dad is supposed to pick him up, but he’s coming from Manchester and the train got delayed or something. I dunno. We’ve been waiting around for Mr. Styles for ages.”

Zayn likes to think he knows his daughter very well. He knows what she sounds like when she wants something, knows that she insists upon being roundabout when she should just tell Zayn what she wants. So he asks, “And?”

“And I was wondering if Jeremy could come home with us?” Summer asks. “ _Please_? I hate the idea of Jeremy waiting around by himself. We could walk or take the tube -- ”

“No, it’s okay,” Zayn sighs. “I’m with a driver right now. We’ll come round to get you both.”

Zayn hears Summer’s small whoosh of breath and can only imagine how her face is being split in two with a grin. “Thanks so much, Baba. We’ll be waiting out front on the steps.”

“See you in a few minutes,” Zayn says. He hangs up and taps the driver on the shoulder, letting him know about their new detour.

 

It’s started to rain by the time Zayn gets to Regent Park. But just as she said, Summer is standing around on the steps outside of her school, her Nike duffel bag at her feet. Next to her is a tall fair skinned black boy that can only be Harry Styles’ son. He certainly favors his father. He’s lanky and handsome, with wavy brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, and light colored eyes, but he slouches just like Styles and eyes Zayn with the same distrust when the car pulls up in front of the two kids.

“That’s my Baba,” Summer says to the boy, pulling him by the sleeve of his jacket. “C’mon then. You can wait for your dad to get you from our flat.”

“Remember all of that stuff growing up about not getting into cars with strangers?” the boy says, his entire being reeking of California. He doesn’t even bother with the fake Madonna accent a lot of Summer’s American-born classmates adopt.

“I’m not a stranger, Jeremy,” Summer points out. “And you’ve been waiting around for your dad for hours. Just tell him to come pick you up from ours. We live in Kings Cross -- close by. It’ll be better than waiting around in the rain.”

Jeremy Styles hums contemplatively, turning to stare at Zayn. He looks up and down the street like his father is going to magically appear. When he doesn’t, Jeremy’s shoulders slump. He looks strangely caved in on himself for someone who is probably around 6’2”. And then he sighs. The type of long, drawn-out, whiny sigh that can only ever be produced by a teenger.

“Fine,” Jeremy huffs. Like Zayn and Summer aren’t the ones doing him a kindness. “But if my dad throws a fit because I left campus, that’s on the two of you.”

Zayn honestly can’t think of anything that would bring him more joy than annoying Harry Styles. “All right then,” Zayn says. “Get in.”

 

It’s always mildly stressful bringing someone new into your home. Zayn knows that. So he isn’t surprised that Summer’s radiating nerves the whole car ride over, chatting with Jeremy even as she picks at her cuticles like she’s wont to do when she’s anxious. She’s almost vibrating by the time the driver drops them off in front of the building, the three of them piling into the lift that will take them up to Zayn and Summer’s flat.

Zayn remembers what it’s like to be fifteen and uncertain. Zayn remembers calling his mum and checking that it was okay to bring a friend over. Zayn remembers inviting friends into his bedroom and kicking his trainers underneath the bedframe, grinning over his shoulder sheepishly as he attempted to make his room decent. And Zayn remembers piling into the kitchen for dinner, trying to fit in an extra seat around an already packed table.

But Summer didn’t grow up in a cramped little house in Bradford. Summer doesn’t wake up every morning to the sound of a baby’s cries the next room over, the slam of the bathroom door, and the feeling of her mother’s calloused hands shaking her awake. Summer’s never been in a fight and she’s never had to change schools to keep out of trouble. Summer’s spent her whole life shuttled between glamorous homes, her grandfather’s giant mansions and her mum’s chic flats in New York City, Miami, and Malibu. Zayn’s space has always seemed quaint in comparison, even though it cost him over a million pounds because London is an expensive hell swamp. But it’s certainly modest next to some of Summer’s mates’ places, these great multi-million pound homes in Chelsea and out in the suburbs, which isn’t surprising because she goes to an expensive school in one of the most expensive cities in the world.

Zayn’s flat has two bedrooms, two baths. Furniture from Ikea because Zayn always forgets he hates assembling his own furniture until it’s far too late. Only one telly, but loads of books, dog-eared, well-loved, and strewn all over the place. Summer doesn’t really want for anything -- she has food in her belly and if she needs new shoes for basketball Zayn will get them for her -- but Zayn wanted her to have a normal-ish upbringing. One where she rides the tube to get where she needs to go and has to sketch out a budget before she gets her allowance every month. She’s a city girl through-and-through and Zayn likes that about her. Zayn knows Summer is clever and the girl is bloody resilient. He wants to protect her, of course he does, but he’s also always trusted her to do the right thing.

Zayn doubts Jeremy’s father lives by the same parenting philosophy. Jeremy’s wearing an All Saints jacket and has Tom Ford sunglasses jammed onto the top of his head even though it’s been pissing rain off and on all day. He’s also wearing what Zayn thinks are a pair of Yeezy’s. Zayn knows from past experience that you don’t really plan to take the tube when you’re wearing £250 shoes.

The lift doors glide open onto their floor and Zayn leads the kids down the hall to the flat. He unlocks the door and gestures for Summer and Jeremy to go in first.

“Oh wow,” Jeremy says, grinning as he looks around, his eyes gliding from the telly in their living room to the small bar in the kitchen. The flat does look presentable for once. Summer’s left a blanket on the sofa and a pair of trainers by the door, but most of the other clutter is confined to their bedrooms. “I really like your place.”

Summer’s shoulders visibly relaxen. “You do? It’s definitely cozy -- ”

“It’s awesome.” Jeremy interrupts, voice firm, in a tone that brokers no arguments. He sounds like Styles does once his mind’s made up on what sort of snacks should be provided at the next PTA meeting and by whom. “And you have a telly!”

“Don’t you?” Zayn asks, closing and locking the door behind them.

“Dad thinks they’re bad for youth development or something,” Jeremy replies with a shrug. “Dunno. He read it in some book.”

Zayn hums. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised. Jeremy’s dad _is_ the sort of twat that would ban his child from watching television.

“But your apartment -- it reminds me of my aunt’s. Like actual people live in it, you know?” Jeremy continues. “Our loft is new. Or a new luxury redevelopment -- _whatever_. New paint, new tiles, new everything. It doesn’t feel like anyone’s house. And everything is steel. I hate it.”

“Come see my room,” Summer interjects. “I’ve got an ace view of the neighborhood and we can watch the highlights from yesterday’s Clippers game.”

“Keep your door open,” Zayn says. He doesn’t think Summer’s ever had a boy over before and Zayn is certainly not going to enable any funny business. Zayn knows just as good as anyone what teenage boys are like. Summer rolls her eyes but nods to demonstrate that she’ll do as she’s told. “And do the two of you want anything? Biscuits? Crisps? I’m going to put the kettle on and work a little.”

“Biscuits? Like -- like _cookies_?” Jeremy asks, his eyes lighting up. In this moment, he looks more five than fifteen. Zayn gets the sudden impression that this poor boy has been woefully deprived of sugar for the majority of his short life. Styles is a monster. Zayn resolves to give the boy as much garbage junk food as he can handle.

“Come back in a few minutes. Summer, you can bring your laptop out and hook it to the telly. I’ll get the snacks sorted.”

“Okay, Baba,” Summer nods. “Thanks.”

“ _Thank you_ , Mr. Malik!” Jeremy gushes, a wide smile searing across his face even as Summer grabs his arm and marches him to her room.

 

It’s another hour or so before Styles shows up to get his son. Jeremy announces it sunnily enough -- glancing at his phone in between what seems like an endless loop of basketball highlight reel videos on YouTube to grumble, annoyed, that his father is waiting for a cab and needs Zayn’s address.

Jeremy and Summer sojourn back to her room to compare trainers or something when Styles finally arrives. He’s got a leather overnight bag slung over his shoulder that looks disgustingly expensive and he grins sheepishly when Zayn lets him in. Zayn thinks it might be the first time Styles has willingly smiled at him in weeks.

“Thank you for letting Jeremy come back to your place,” Styles gushes, following Zayn into the kitchen where he’s been helplessly staring at his laptop screen for the past forty-five minutes. “The meeting ran late and I missed the train back into Euston. I -- I never like to keep Jeremy waiting -- ”

“It’s no problem,” Zayn interrupts with a shrug. He doesn’t particularly care about Styles’ misadventures at Manchester Piccadily. Shit happens and Zayn is a saint for taking in his poor, helpless giant of a son. Zayn already knows these things. “He and Summer have been watching basketball videos all evening. Better Jeremy to hear about the bloody Clippers than me.”

Styles laughs. A large, full-bodied thing where he screws up his eyes and snorts a little. Zayn has a moment where he finds it incredibly endearing before he reminds himself that Styles is a huge knob and potentially the bane of his existence. “Oh, _God_. You’re telling me. Jeremy is obsessed with just about every one of those teams that wears red. The Clippers, the Bulls. And erm -- the Heat? I think that’s the other one. There were posters all over his room back in LA. I don’t think he’s gotten around to putting them back up here.”

Zayn tries to hide his smile. He didn’t expect that Styles would let Jeremy put up posters, but knowing that Jeremy’s had tall athletic men all over his bedroom walls actually makes Zayn feel a bit warm all over. He loves when kids are ridiculous and slightly homoerotic. Summer, for her part, has a million Beyoncé posters on her walls, and Zayn’s caught her doing the Single Ladies dance in her room before. He loves bringing it up to anyone who will listen. He kind of wants to mention it to Styles, but he isn’t sure whether the twat is deserving of such a fun tidbit about his wonderful, amazing daughter.

“Knowing Summer, they won’t be out for another fifteen minutes or so,” Zayn says. “Would you fancy a cuppa?”

Zayn’s never noticed it before, but Styles’ eyes are very, very green, and he’s got a dimple in his cheek when he smiles. It makes Zayn feel very suspicious about the man and his intentions. “Yeah, I would, Malik. Cheers.”

 

It takes approximately twenty minutes for Zayn to offend Styles.

Zayn puts the kettle on before turning to his cabinet and pulling out all of his snacks again -- biscuits, crisps, even the little chocolate chips that Summer likes to munch on and toss into her oatmeal. Styles wrinkles his nose like a child at the mere sight of them. “No thank you,” he says. “Don’t eat much sugar. Or starch.”

“Suit yourself,” Zayn says, before reaching into his refrigerator to grab a container of whipping cream. Zayn grabs a utensil to dump a spoonful of whipping cream onto a biscuit, jams another biscuit on top, and eats it like a sandwich.

Styles’ lip curls either like he’s disgusted or like he wants to try Zayn’s creation for himself. Zayn doesn’t care enough to seek clarification.

“I gave Jeremy some biscuits,” Zayn says as he eats another spoonful of whipping cream straight from the container. Zayn thinks Styles’ clear distaste makes the cream taste even better, if that’s believable. “Hope that’s fine. The way he reacted, I wasn’t sure if he was allowed processed sugar or not.”

“It’s not that he’s not allowed,” Styles mutters. “It’s just -- there was some concern when he was younger that he was diabetic. He lost weight and was pissing all the time. It ended up being something else, an infection, thank God, but we’d both already gotten used to the diet. We still have plenty of muffins and things. I used to work in a bakery when I was a teenager.”

Zayn frowns around another spoonful of whipping cream. For some stupid, inconvenient reason, he feels a like a jerk. Zayn knows he can be a little caustic -- or very rude, depending on the situation and whether Mercury is in retrograde -- but he tries to only direct his ill will to people who truly deserve it. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to presume -- ”

“That I’m an asshole who doesn’t let his kid have any fun?” Styles huffs.

Zayn flushes. “Yeah. That.”

Styles shrugs but he still looks tense and annoyed. A part of Zayn wants to smack him and tell him to get over himself, but another, nicer part wants to hear him out. “It’s whatever. I know that it’s a _thing_. I hear what some of the other parents say about me, you know. That I need to get a life and stop acting like the bloody Margaret Thatcher of the PTA. I’m not trying to be difficult. I just want the best for the Association and I don’t see why I have to be a twat just to get people’s attention during meetings.”

“You’re not a twat,” Zayn protests, but it’s half-hearted at best and Styles sends him a withering look.

“You don’t have to lie,” Styles says. “I know you don’t care for me anymore and I’m sure you know that I don’t particularly like your strops, either. Both are fine, so long as you still do your part. Nobody said we have to be friends.”

Zayn nods and turns back to the kettle, just for something to do while the water boils. Styles similarly falls silent. He looks tired, great dark bags underneath his eyes. The hair falling into his face seems lank and greasy. Zayn’s only ever seen Styles looking posh and ridiculous on campus. Hell, Zayn didn’t even know Styles existed outside of the room where they met for PTA meetings. He just assumed Styles sat there in hibernation in between meetings, gaining sustenance from sending passive aggressive emails and harassing all of the subcommittees.

Styles seems so different from his son. Styles is a wet blanket. But Jeremy -- Zayn can tell he’s Prom King material, even though he does frown enough that Zayn wants to poke him and tell him his face will stick that way. Tall, good-looking, athletic. Earnest, too. Zayn sees why Summer likes him and wants to protect him. Zayn thinks he likes the boy, too. He certainly wants to feed the boy tonnes of biscuits.

The kettle goes off and Zayn quickly pulls down two mugs and sets boxes of tea in front of Styles. They fix their cups in relative silence, but Zayn can hear Jeremy and Summer from down the hallway. Summer’s quick, braying laughter and Jeremy’s more subdued giggles. Zayn wonders whether Summer has a crush on Jeremy and then promptly tells himself to never think about that possibility ever again.

“He looks just like you, you know,” Zayn ends up blurting out. “Jeremy, I mean.”

“Oh,” Styles replies. For a moment, his face is very young and uncertain. He looks like Jeremy did, glancing up and down the street and waiting for his father to appear off in the distance. “He’s not -- he’s not mine. Well, I mean he _is_ mine. Obviously. But. He’s adopted.”

Zayn’s actually surprised. Jeremy looks startlingly like his father, from the swoop of curls down to the sweet dimple in his cheeks. They even scowl at Zayn the same.

“A lot of people think he is, though. Like, you’re not the first,” Styles continues. He’s cradling his mug of tea between his hands almost nervously. “Especially little old ladies at Waitrose when he was a baby and we were living with my mum and step-dad. I looked into it a bit because I never knew how to react, really. Researchers say it’s attunement. Erm. Kids learn facial expressions from their adopted parents, so the way they react to emotion is the same.”

“That’s really lovely,” Zayn says, genuinely meaning it. Styles frowns at Zayn but he must see the sincerity in Zayn’s face because he lifts a shoulder and his own countenance smooths out once more.

“ _He’s_ lovely,” Styles says. “Having him in my life. Even the hard bits. Maybe even especially the hard bits.”

Zayn hums. He knows the feeling. Things haven’t always been smooth for him as a father. He was so busy and worked so much when Summer was first born. His whole life was built around revising because he knew that if he got a stellar education it could open up opportunities for him to be a stellar father, too. It took so much sacrifice -- missing Summer’s first word because he was at class, arriving late to her recital when she was in nursery and seeing the flash of hurt on her tiny, chubby face -- but Zayn’s been able to forge all sorts of new memories with Summer since. Like racing from a huge hearing at the UN to make the last minutes of her championship footie match, lifting her on his shoulders when her team won and making her squeal. Quitting the UN even though it paid well and bringing Summer to UCL law courses once he landed a gig there. He used to give Summer crayons and coloring books to play with while he lectured and she was always perfectly well-behaved, smiling up at her Baba from her seat in the front row. Zayn also remembers taking her to an NBA game at the O2 and buying her her first basketball. The hard work was worth being able to provide for his daughter, and Summer’s grown up knowing that her dad isn’t a quitter, that her dad perseveres even when it’s tough, _especially_ when it’s tough, and that she should, too.

“Summer said Jeremy’s been having somewhat of a rough go of it,” Zayn says. “I -- every day she likes to chat with me about all of her classmates. I’m always well up to date on the gossip. Summer’s a bit worried about Jeremy, though, I think.” Zayn doesn’t mention that Summer also said that Jeremy feels like his dad doesn’t understand him and doesn’t understand what it’s like to be a mixed-race kid transplanted in London, with a handful of wealthy enemies and few friends. Those are things Zayn should probably chat with Jeremy about one-on-one.

Styles fiddles with the handle of his mug. “He doesn’t really like London,” Styles admits. “I should’ve known he’d have a hard time adjusting. He’s so bloody American, and it’s not like he can remember that we used to live here, that this is where he was born. He misses Los Angeles and his basketball team. He complains that the weather is shit and that the school basketball team is shit and then he gets upset when I tell him to watch his fucking language and put a pound in the swear jar. He spends most of his free time on the phone or looking longingly into the distance. He’s such a bloody teenager. I told him we could fly back to the States during the summer if he just gets his grades up.” Styles cuts himself off abruptly, crossing his arms over his chest and looking suddenly apologetic. “Sorry. I -- you don’t care about any of this.”

“No, I do,” Zayn protests. “I’m the one who asked. And it’s -- I know what it’s like. Summer’s mum is American. Gigi gets to be the _cool parent_ , and Summer flies out to New York or LA every July and returns with stories about how amazing the States are and how she can’t wait to go to NYU or USC for uni. It’s a lot for a kid, being bi-continental, having one foot here and the other in the States. But Summer and Jeremy can talk to each other about it, maybe.”

Styles tilts his head to the side and points at Zayn accusatorially. “Gigi,” Styles says, like that’s a real, complete sentence. “Is Summer’s mum Gigi Hadid?”

Zayn blinks. “Erm. Yes?”

Styles slams his hand on the counter and laughs. It isn’t a nice laugh, though. It’s tinged with something a little rough and mocking. “ _God_! I thought Summer looked familiar but I couldn’t place from where. And her mum’s name is Jelena in the database, not Gigi. But I should’ve known! David said one of Yolanda’s granddaughters went to school here. Your ex-wife is a fucking supermodel! Figures.”

Whatever sense of intimacy -- or closeness, whatever -- that had been built between Zayn and Styles over the past twenty minutes immediately disappears. Zayn can honestly feel his walls slam up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Styles says, but his eyes are sharp and assessing like they get during PTA meetings. Like he’s on the hunt, just looking for an opening to cut someone down. “Guess it’s just not too surprising you’d go for looks over everything else.”

“That’s a little rich of you to say, considering you don’t know anything about me or my ex-wife,” Zayn retorts. “But I guess it’s to be expected, considering you’re a childish, judgmental pr-- ”

“Mr. Styles!” Summer interjects, breezing into the living room, Jeremy hot on her heels. Based on their tense shoulders and darting eyes, Zayn knows immediately that Summer and Jeremy heard him and Styles arguing, and he feels shame wash over him like a dump of rainwater. He shouldn’t have let Styles get under his skin. He shouldn’t have raised his voice. He should’ve just let it go, just like he needs to let all of Styles’ petty comments go. “It’s good to see you again.”

“And you, Summer,” Styles says, smiling politely and angling his body to face her better. “I heard all about your last game. Twenty points in a half! That’s mighty impressive.”

“We still lost,” Summer shrugs. “But it’s a good stat to have on the scoresheet, yeah. I just hope to be as impressive as Jeremy is on the court.”

Jeremy mumbles something under his breath that sounds quite a bit like “Like my dad even knows what a fucking scoresheet is” and plops himself right in front of the television. His suddenly sullen disposition is such a contrast from the bright grin he’d adopted while eating biscuits and watching LeBron James clips on YouTube that Zayn feels more than a little confused. Summer looks at Jeremy in mild horror and Styles’ own megawatt smile dims considerably.

“Well, we’ll need to get going,” Styles says awkwardly, pushing himself from Zayn’s bar and hastily finishing off his mug of tea. “Jezza, tell Summer and her dad goodbye.”

Jeremy glares at his father with such vitriol that Zayn actually wants to recoil. He didn’t even know a teenager could summon such a withering glare. “Why are we in such a hurry?” Jeremy asks, his words dripping with faux innocence. “I know you weren’t in such a rush in Manchester with _your date_ \-- ”

“Jeremy, coat, _now_ ,” Styles hisses. Jeremy rolls his eyes, mouth working like he wants to retort, but he dutifully collects his things with Summer’s help nonetheless.

“It was nice having you both over,” Summer says as she sees Styles and Jeremy to the door, ever the perfect little hostess. Zayn’s grateful, because he’s still dumbfounded, trying to make sense of whatever just transpired between Styles and his son. “You’re always welcome.”

“Thank you, Summer,” Styles says. He’s smiling again but now that Zayn knows to look for it, he can see how stress and uncertainty is twisting his countenance. The lanky hair, the bags under his eyes, the desperate need to overcompensate. Zayn wonders if it all comes from the strained relationship with Jeremy. Zayn knows that adolescence is a hard time for many kids and their parents, but he can’t ever imagine Summer looking at him the way Jeremy looked at Styles. It’d probably destroy Zayn if she ever did. “I hope you and your father have a lovely evening.”

Jeremy says nothing. He gives Zayn and Summer one long, baleful look -- although it’s possible he’s really looking at the telly and abandoned crisps on the coffee table with such soul-crushing sadness -- and then bolts for the lift.

Summer closes the door behind Jeremy and Styles and slumps against it. The only sound in the flat is the gurgle of their pipes and Summer’s ragged breathing. She looks like she’s run a marathon, chest heaving and eyes watering. Summer always was quite empathetic, taking on her friends’ problems as though they were her own.

“I said things between them were weird and you brushed me off,” Summer says. “Do you believe me now?”

Zayn still isn’t capable of speech, so he only nods.

 

The scene that played out between Styles and Jeremy runs on repeat in Zayn’s head over the next few days. Always at inconvenient times, of course, like when Zayn should be tweaking one of his citations or responding to a routine email from the PTA’s Marketing Committee. But Jeremy’s words continue to rise to the front of Zayn’s mind, same as the ugly twist to his mouth and the dejection in Styles’ shoulders.

It’s just -- Zayn feels like a judgmental arse about the whole situation, and that’s not usually something he aspires to be. He knows he can be a little unpleasant. He knows that he’s very firm in his beliefs, and he knows that sometimes that comes across as stubbornness or even mild snobbishness. But Zayn does try to be fair and he tries to be understanding. And, perhaps most importantly, Zayn tries to be _helpful_. He’s still working on it -- how to hold his tongue and listen, how to be more empathetic and generally a joy to be around, like Summer is -- but the fact that he’s trying has to account for something.

Zayn thinks Styles is a childish knob and he’s still hurt that Styles thought it would be best to try and kick him off the PTA rather than talk to him. But Zayn can put all of that aside because he can see now that Summer was right -- that Styles is clearly dealing with larger issues, and dealing with them _poorly_. Zayn doesn’t know if it started with Jeremy or vice versa, but either way, Zayn wants to help.

And because Zayn would rather be helpful than judgemental, he contemplates Styles and Jeremy’s situation the only way he really knows how. He sits alone in his bedroom one evening, his rolling papers spread out over an old vinyl, and he lets his thoughts drift in strange and wild directions.

Summer’s staying late at school to receive some tutoring with her maths. She’s really struggling with trigonometry and there’s not much Zayn can do to help there, and the flat is quiet without her warm, flamboyant presence. For not the first time, Zayn wishes they had a cat or dog padding around, cuddly and soft pawed.

But as it is, he turns on an old Brandy record and vibes to her smooth tone and futuristic beats. He pushes open a window and smokes until he feels loose and creative. He opens up an email to Styles and doesn’t write anything in it. He just sits and stares at the name, as well as the tiny picture of Styles linked to his Gmail account. It’s the type of photo you see on someone’s bio page online or on LinkedIn -- a glamor headshot entirely devoid of personality.

Zayn wonders what Styles is _really_ like, beyond the pretension of the PTA, the expensive, flowing tops and wide-brimmed hats. From everything Zayn’s heard of Jeremy from Summer, the kid is quick, funny, and a hellhound on the basketball court. Zayn wonders how many of those attributes he shares with his father.

Zayn wonders why Styles moved from Los Angeles to London. He wonders why Styles decided to join the PTA and the Board of Directors, and then he wonders why Styles gave up on Zayn so quickly. Zayn wonders why he even cares what Styles thinks of him. And then another part of Zayn, that tiny, unsure part of his personality that only ever seems to grow bold with weed or whiskey, murmurs that he wishes his and Styles’ relationship was still salvageable.

Zayn wonders and wonders until the sun sets and Summer’s come back to the flat, calling out her “hello’s” and stomping through to the kitchen. Zayn emerges from his bedroom to greet her, feeling like some sort of vampire. Summer wrinkles her nose a little at the smell of marijuana but otherwise doesn’t say anything. Both Zayn and Gigi smoke, although for the most part they tried -- and failed -- to hide their habits from their daughter. Summer never seemed to care one way or the other, but one year she did buy Zayn a box of candles for his birthday to “help hide the reek.”

“How was tutoring?” Zayn yawns as he settles at the bar. Summer’s already got a box of cereal in hand and a huge bowl sitting on the counter. She looks tired and more than a little annoyed, half of her hair falling out the bun she sloppily affixed at the top of her head. Zayn wants to cheer her up, so he bops her on the nose and swallows his laugh when she swats at his hand and grins.

“I hate maths,” Summer declares. “I hate trigonometry and I hate the ancient Greeks.”

“The ancient Greeks weren’t too bad,” Zayn says. “Like Plato and Aristotle. Theophrastus. The Draconian Constitution’s cool. Solon of Athens.”

“Are you just listing old Greek things related to law?” Summer asks, squinting suspiciously.

“No,” Zayn lies.

“Uh huh,” Summer answers, clearly not believing him. “What did you get up to today? Besides apparently contemplating the relevance of ancient Greece on modern law.”

“Draco’s code is very important and I think about it every day. It helped democratize access to legal knowledge,” Zayn says. “But other than that I did nothing besides think about your friend.”

Summer tilts her head like a little parrot. She used to do that a lot when she was younger, tilting her head and asking Zayn question after question. Zayn’s dad was the first one to say she looked like a little birdie and the name just stuck. “Which friend? Amira? Jessica?”

“Jessica Payne? What? No,” Zayn says. “I meant Jeremy Styles.”

Summer hums to herself and sits next to Zayn at the bar with her monster bowl of Frosties. “Oh. Why?”

“Because you were right when you said I was judging Styles too harshly,” Zayn admits. “I feel like a tool for arguing with him when he came over, and I feel bad that he and Jeremy have been having a rough go of it.”

“I think you should talk to him,” Summer says, stirring her spoon around her bowl. “Jeremy, I mean.”

“Talk to him?”

“Yeah, about patching things up with his dad,” Summer elaborates. “He listens to me, but only kind of. He thinks that I’m biased or something.”

“If he doesn’t listen to you, what makes you think he would listen to me?”

“Because you’ve been where he is,” Summer answers, as though it really is that simple. “You got into fights at school. You were the ‘Bradford bad boy’ in your classes at LSE. You’re mixed race. Things were challenging for you growing up, I know, but everything still turned out fine. I think he needs someone like you in his life. A mentor, maybe. Mr. Styles tries -- he really does -- but he’s Jeremy’s dad and Jeremy feels like everything Mr. Styles says is a lecture.”

Zayn politely doesn’t point out that everything Styles says _is_ indeed a lecture, but Summer must see something on Zayn’s face because she snorts.

“You’re so transparent, Baba,” she giggles.

“I didn’t say anything,” Zayn says. “I didn’t even smile.”

“Uh huh,” Summer says, grinning with mischief in her eyes. But suddenly she sobers, looking so earnest that Zayn’s heart almost falls out of his arse right there on the spot. “But will you think about it, at least? I really do think it’d be helpful if the two of you had some sort of conversation.”

Zayn lifts a shoulder. “I mean, if you think he’d be open to the idea. Just -- you know I’d do anything for you, birdie. And it really does make me sad to think one of your friends is struggling in any way.”

Summer nods, her lips pursed in a smile that looks fond, admiring, and only a little watery. “I know, Baba. Love you tons.”

“Love you too, birdie.”

Summer stands and Zayn pulls her in close, even though she’s at least two centimeters taller than him now, and she can’t quite wrap around him the way she used to when she was younger. But like this Zayn can still pretend as though she’s six again, his chubby, awkward daughter who always tried to make herself smaller until they went to that fateful NBA game at the O2. One of Zayn’s mates had scored the tickets and Zayn remembers worrying that Summer would be bored. Zayn snickers at the memory and plays with a tuft of Summer’s bleached blonde hair. _God_. If only he’d known.

 

Summer practically lives at the Somers Town Community Sports Centre, so Zayn’s unsurprised when he texts her one evening and she says she’s playing basketball there with Jeremy Styles and some boys from Regent High School. Zayn walks the ten minutes from their flat to the facilities and makes small talk with the teenager working the front desk while he waits for Summer to come out.

She finally does something like twenty minutes after Zayn arrives. She’s rosy and sweaty, almost drowning in baggy basketball trackies that Zayn suspects might actually be Jeremy’s. And, almost on cue, Jeremy Styles dutifully follows Summer out of the gymnasium, his long, curly brown hair pulled into a topknot. He’s got both his and Summer’s bags slung over his shoulder and he smiles hesitantly when he sees Zayn.

“Hey, Mr. Malik,” Jeremy says.

“Jeremy,” Zayn nods. “Were you coming back to our flat?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind,” Jeremy says. “My dad said he’s wrapping up some stuff on campus.”

Zayn vaguely remembers an email chain about some Honors dinner for the middle schoolers. Liam and Niall had both volunteered to take care of it, and Styles is bound to be there, too, because he’s a meddling, micromanaging shit. Zayn tries not to judge Style’s decision -- and fails.

“Of course you can come back with us,” Zayn says. “You’re always welcome.”

“Awesome,” Jeremy says. He slings his bags to the ground and sits down on a bench near the Centre’s front door. Summer does the same, and together the two of them start rifling through their bags, swapping sweatshirts and pulling on different pairs of trainers. It’s kind of cute and also kind of frightening. Zayn’s seen Summer do things like this with her girlfriends, but he’s never really seen her interact like this with a boy.

“What did you get up to today, Summer?” Zayn asks as a way to distract himself from his own disturbing thoughts. “You went to school and then came straight to the Centre?”

“We played pick-up, mostly,” Summer says. “Absolutely murdered those Regent boys.”

“Decimated them,” Jeremy adds with relish, standing up once more and sliding his bag over his shoulder. Jeremy moves a lot like his father, meaning he’s a long-limbed mess of awkwardness. At least Jeremy can attribute his strange gait to being a teenager. Styles has no bloody excuse. “Think they assumed that because Summer’s a girl she would be easy meat.”

“Gotta use that stupidity to your advantage,” Summer says. “All it took was one sweet lay-up -- ”

“But that three you hit, too,” Jeremy interjects. “‘Steph Curry with the shot!‘”

“You’re one to talk!” Summer exclaims. She’s properly excited now, somehow even redder in the face, gesticulating big and enthusiastically. “The one you knocked off would’ve been on an NBA highlight reel.”

“Nah, I practically had my foot on the line. But yours was almost from half-court!”

“Well, you didn’t tell me you could _dunk_!”

Zayn, who has really only been half paying attention to the conversation once Jeremy and Summer started yelling all over each other, suddenly dials all the way back in. “You can dunk?” he asks, turning to Jeremy. Zayn can admit he still doesn’t know much about basketball -- only the basic things necessary to following Summer’s games -- but he knows that the ability to dunk is pretty impressive. “But you’re only -- what? Fifteen?”

“Almost,” Jeremy says, sighing. “I can _almost_ dunk. My trainer says I need to work a little more on my flexibility. It’s annoying. I should have it down by now.”

Summer glares at Jeremy, unimpressed. “He’s lying,” Summer tells her father. “He can’t do any fancy between the legs things yet, but he can jump up, catch a ball, put it through the net, and hang off the rim.”

“What’s dunking without the fancy between the legs things?” Jeremy laments, which Zayn thinks is a valid point.

“Still a dunk!” Summer exclaims. “I wish I could.”

“You should learn how if you want to,” Zayn says, because he will always encourage his daughter to follow her dreams, even if he doesn’t entirely understand them.

“Coach says it’s pointless,” Summer continues. “I’m still on the short end for a basketball player and most girls can’t jump as high. Plus Coach says it’s flashy and you could really hurt yourself in a game -- ”

“That’s stupid,” Jeremy mumbles. “Your coach is a moron. You can hurt yourself running up and down the damn court.” He furrows his brows and nods to himself decidedly, lips pursed and determined. “You should learn how to dunk. Brittney Griner shouldn’t have all the fun.”

“And who will teach me?”

“We’ll get together with my trainer at the gym,” Jeremy says. “I’m sure he can come up with a strategy for you. Even if it’s just you jumping off a trampoline.”

Summer hoists her duffle bag on her shoulder and stands. Zayn wonders who in the hell would ever call Summer short when the doctor at her last appointment said she was bloody six foot. But she looks small now, staring down at her trainers, suddenly shy and bashful. Zayn is simultaneously touched and horrified. “That’s very sweet of you to offer, Jezza,” she says. “I -- maybe on the weekend or something?”

Jeremy thrusts his hands in his pockets and shrugs. He also avoids looking at Summer. Zayn almost feels like he’s intruding and considers starting to walk back home. This whole conversation is odd and Zayn doesn’t like it.

“It’s no big deal, Summer. You’re awesome. And if you wanna learn how to dunk, then you should learn how to dunk. That’s all.”

“ _Well_ ,” Zayn says, making his way toward the door. Summer and Jeremy suddenly look at him, and Zayn wonders if they’d forgotten he was there. “Let’s get heading back to the flat then?”

“Yeah!” Summer exclaims, adjusting the strap on her duffle bag. “Walk and _chat_ , yes, Baba?”

And with that, Summer winks at her father and abruptly darts out of the Centre.

Jeremy turns to Zayn and raises an eyebrow.

 

Summer must’ve run the block, because when Jeremy and Zayn head outside they only catch the whip of her ponytail as she scurries around the corner. Jeremy sighs and pulls his basketball out of his duffel bag. He doesn’t do anything with it, just holds it. Zayn wonders if the ball is a grounding mechanism for him the same way it is for Summer.

“Summer wanted me to talk to you, you know,” Zayn says as they wait at a busy intersection.

“Yeah,” Jeremy mutters. “She told me. Summer thinks I’m a basket case or something.”

“I don’t think those are the words I’d use,” Zayn answers mildly. “She’s just worried about you. It’s hard moving, and it’s especially hard moving out of the country.”

“I guess.”

Zayn tries not to sigh. God, talking to teenagers can feel like pulling teeth. Summer is going to owe him for this one. He’ll ask her to load the dishwasher for the next month. “It’s okay to talk about your feelings, you know. I’m not going to judge.”

“Nah, but you could go back and give a full report to my dad,” Jeremy sniffles.

“Why in the world would I do that?”

“You’re both on the PTA,” Jeremy says. “He’s always talking about you and how much you do for the school. So clearly you’re like _besties_ or something.”

A part of Zayn wants to demand that Jeremy recount every single thing his father has ever said about him, but another part of Zayn realizes that’s Not The Point of this discussion. “Your father and I aren’t friends.”

The light turns green. They cross the street and Jeremy avoids looking at Zayn, but still somehow manages to appear extremely skeptical. “Uh huh.”

“Your father annoys me to no end,” Zayn tries instead.

“Doubtful.”

“Your father is a giant twat and the bane of my existence.”

“That’s exactly what you would say if you were trying to gain my trust but were actually a spy for my dad,” Jeremy points out.

“It’s not that serious,” Zayn says. “You can ask Summer. I’m doing this for her, not for your dad.”

Jeremy squints off into the distance. Zayn remembers doing that a lot when he was younger, too, when he felt uncomfortable and wanted everyone to leave him the fuck alone. “Summer says that, but I dunno,” Jeremy says. “I just -- it always seemed like my dad really liked you. Almost like he had a crush on you or something.”

This is the second time someone has said as much about Styles and Zayn still doesn’t believe it. Zayn’s always assumed that when you’re pushing forty you’ve lived enough to know that pulling on pigtails is stupid and a waste of time.

“I don’t think he fancies me,” Zayn says. “He’s called me superficial and asked me to step down from the PTA.”

Jeremy holds his basketball against the crown of his head and stares at Zayn. “Oh,” he says. “That’s really stupid. If he really said that to you, then my dad’s a moron.”

“Your dad isn’t a moron,” Zayn protests unconvincingly. “He’s just -- he’s a little distracted right now.”

“ _Distracted_.” Jeremy scoffs, bringing the ball down against his chest like he’s going to violently lob it at a passerby. “He didn’t use to be like this, you know. He didn’t use to be an annoying tool. He worked a lot, but I could still count on him, you know? But then he started dating that asshole and we moved out of the fucking country and he couldn’t even keep that going.”

Zayn blinks until he gives up on trying to make sense of Jeremy’s words. “What?”

“You mean he didn’t tell the whole PTA during orientation?” Jeremy asks, laughing cruelly. “We moved out here because my dad was chasing some guy. But the loser dumped him right after Dad sold our house in LA and bought the loft.”

Zayn suddenly feels very, very bad for Harry Styles. He feels even worse for Jeremy. The boy’s bitterness and disappointment make a whole lot of sense. “ _Oh_. That’s -- I’m sorry, Jeremy.”

Jeremy lifts a shoulder and says, “It’s whatever,” even though it very clearly isn’t just _whatever_.

“You know, you’re allowed to be upset,” Zayn says. “You can be upset about giving up your life in LA and you can be upset at your dad’s ex. It sounds like he did a really shitty thing. But I don’t think your dad would move across the Atlantic with you if he didn’t think this relationship was very, very serious. The real thing.”

“Oh yeah, that’s what he says, too,” Jeremy says, resolutely avoiding Zayn’s gaze. “That they were on track toward an engagement. But I _told_ him this was a mistake. I told him before we left. If the guy loved him so much, _he_ could move to LA. We already had a life there -- me and my dad. This guy didn’t have kids. He could find another job. He had nothing to lose by moving. But _nope_. We were the ones who packed up and left. And I get we’re closer to Nana now and I’m at a really good school, but. Still. I didn’t want to be right. I’m the kid, yeah? I’m not supposed to be right.”

“A few weeks ago, when you came back to our flat,” Zayn starts. “You said something about your dad not rushing his date. What did you mean?”

Jeremy lifts a shoulder. “He said he had a work meeting in Manchester but that’s where that loser lives. I was just so upset. I’m standing around school waiting for my dad like a fucking loser -- sorry, I know, I need to watch my language -- and he doesn’t even apologize for being late. I know he was messing around with that guy. I just know it.”

“You can’t be sure of that, though,” Zayn says. “You can’t project onto him or put words into his mouth. That’s not fair. And you don’t want to hold all of this animosity against your dad. It’s not healthy. You can trust me on that.”

Jeremy gnaws at his lip. “Yeah,” he admits grudgingly. “I -- I really don’t like being angry at him. But he’s not _talking_ to me. Not in any way that matters. He spends all of his time dicking around with the PTA or lecturing me about how I need to take my schoolwork more seriously. I get that he’s upset about things, but I’m upset, too. I’ve got no one here. Well, I guess I have Summer now, but for the first few months I was by myself most of the time. I fucking hate the rain. I can’t watch the Clippers play in real time unless I stay up until three in the morning.” Jeremy begins dribbling the ball angrily, each smack of rubber against the pavement seemingly egging him on. “I miss my ex-girlfriend and I miss driving out to the coast and having bonfires. I miss being on a basketball team that was worth something. I miss winning! I miss In-N-Out. And don’t tell my dad, but I really, really miss having good weed.”

Zayn can’t help himself. He laughs.

And the nice thing -- the thing that Zayn will remember more than anything else from this conversation -- is that Jeremy smiles, too. Small and tentative at first, but then so big and brazen that Zayn almost feels blinded by it.

“You’re a good kid, you know that?” Zayn says. They’re already almost around the corner from the flat, but Zayn feels like he has to get all of this out while the energy is still good, before the spell between them breaks. “You go to school every day, you play sports, and you work hard at both. You’ve gotten into a fight, but you didn’t start that, and you didn’t deserve it, either. Truth be told, you don’t do anything that would keep a parent up at night. And your dad _knows_ that. What he’s not telling you -- what he’s not talking to you about -- is that he’s in mourning right now. He misses what he had and he’s trying to fill that space with other things, with the PTA and a million other distractions. He doesn’t like that you were right any more than you do. But he loves you and he trusts you, Jeremy. You just have to give him the space to remember all of that again.”

Jeremy dribbles the ball between his legs. He doesn’t say anything, but he does look at Zayn consideringly through the fan of his eyelashes. Zayn grins in response and knocks his shoulder against Jeremy’s. It’s a small gesture. Reassurance, nothing more.

Zayn gets it. It’s hard to talk about your feelings. It’s especially hard to talk about your feelings when you’re fifteen and society tells you you’re supposed to be a man, strong and confident, someone who solves problems with a well-timed word or the swing of a fist. And it’s hard to talk about your feelings when you close your eyes and feel the weight of the whole world on your shoulders, all of those odds that are seemingly stacked up against you. Jeremy’s privileged in ways that Zayn never was growing up, but Summer’s right in that there are some similarities here, too. It doesn’t take a huge stretch of Zayn’s imagination for him to shift skins, to pretend as though he’s a six foot two kid just trying to make sense of a series of huge life changes while also going through fucking puberty. Jeremy’s coping much better than Zayn would’ve in his shoes.

Zayn knows that it’s hard for Jeremy to talk about everything that’s rattling through his brain. And Zayn knows that it’s even harder to tell an adult that they might just be onto something. But the idea’s planted. That’s all Zayn wanted to do.

Up the block, Summer is standing by the entrance to their building. She’s got her cell phone in hand and she’s wearing Jeremy’s Nike sweatshirt. She smiles once she sees Zayn and Jeremy approach and the quirk of her lips is still the sweetest thing Zayn’s ever seen. Zayn wonders what sorts of thoughts are going through her head, how anyone could ever smile so big looking at him.

“Good chat?” Summer inquires innocently.

“You’re not slick,” Jeremy tells her. “You would make a horrible secret agent.”

“False. I would be an amazing super agent. I even thought about being Black Widow this past Halloween,” Summer admits.

“I’m really glad you didn’t,” Jeremy quips, and together they make their way inside of the building.

 

Styles comes to Zayn’s flat a few hours later. Zayn makes himself scarce -- meaning he hides in his bedroom while Summer greets Styles at the door and offers to make him tea -- and he doesn’t leave his room again until the next morning.

But when he does, he drags his laptop into the kitchen and scrolls through a never-ending stream of emails from his editor, fellow Law department members at UCL, a few of his students, and the PTA.

But in the middle of all that clutter is an email Styles sent at one in the morning. The subject line is a simple “Thank You.” And then, in the body, is another simple message: _I don’t know what you said to Jeremy, but it’s made all the difference. We had dinner together for the first time since we moved into the loft. Thank you. All the love. H._

 

Zayn helps with the strange Thanksgiving event the PTA organizes to memorialize the genocide of Native Americans, hanging up artwork before the event and then helping with cleanup after everyone’s eaten. Then November gives way to the cheer and expectation of December. Zayn doesn’t celebrate Christmas but he always appreciated the traditions that accompanied it, the smell of evergreens and carving out an afternoon to decorate a tree with lights and ornaments. He doesn’t do much of that now that he’s divorced, though. Instead he focuses on getting Summer some of the things she’s mentioned needing. Those weird bath things from Lush. New jeans and jumpers because her growth spurt means most of her winter clothes are too short now. And then Zayn splurges on a pair of basketball shoes that Jeremy had showed Summer on his phone, limited edition Nikes that both kids had oohed and ahhed over.

At the beginning of December, Styles invites Summer over to his loft, and says that Zayn is more than welcome to come as well. Summer readily accepts and lets Zayn know that she’s heading over there right after class, but Zayn’s more hesitant. He walks around his flat barefoot for an hour before scolding himself for being such a child and pulling on a pair of tried and true Docs.

Styles lives in Soho, which surprises Zayn. Styles always struck Zayn as a bit of a trust funder, someone who spent his uni years in Chelsea and then made his way to Wimbledon so he could raise his son, work on a lifestyle blog, do yoga, and terrorize the PTA. But instead Styles lives in Soho, on the top floor of a building on busy Charing Cross Road. Zayn thinks there’s a gay bar next door, actually. Zayn checks his texts several times to make sure he’s got the right address, wary because the building strangely has what looks like a concierge service. The doorman smiles kindly at Zayn once he finally confirms that he is indeed at the right place and resolves to go in.

Styles looks soft when he slides his door open and welcomes Zayn inside. Zayn would never admit it out loud, but it’s nice to see him again. He’s not wearing his ridiculously expensive fluttering shirts, and he doesn’t have one of his hats on, either. Instead he’s got his long hair pulled back in a bun and he’s wearing a Clippers jersey over a pair of soft, gray joggers. Zayn knows now that Harry isn’t Jeremy’s biological father, but once more Zayn can’t help but think how the two have clearly influenced each other. There are clearly some ties that transcend blood.

“They’re up in Jeremy’s room,” Styles says conspiratorially. “Let me fix you a cuppa while we wait for them to finish up.”

Styles’ loft is long and rectangular. The living room is huge and white, with a white sofa, white carpet, a white fireplace, and a white bookcase that extends up two floors and requires a sliding ladder to reach the highest rows. It’s only about half full, but there are records and knick knacks interspersed with Shakespeare, Bukowski, and _My Losing Season_ by Pat Conroy. Styles leads Zayn past the living room and to the right, where there is a smaller sitting area -- one with a plush purple sofa sinking underneath all of Jeremy’s haphazardly placed basketball gear -- and the kitchen. Here, Zayn can see what Jeremy meant about the house being all steel. The counters are steel, as are all of the appliance. But the stools are bright purple and there are brightly colored photo frames on the countertop. One looks fairly recent, Styles and Jeremy standing underneath a bright presumably California sun and grinning full at the camera in complementary swim trunks, Jeremy’s arm slung over his father’s shoulders. Another depicts a much younger Jeremy in a basketball kit with missing front teeth, unruly chocolate curls, and a gleaming gold medal around his neck. And then one of Styles looking flushed, exhausted, and pleased, a toddler-sized Jeremy sitting in his lap and squishing his father’s cheeks in between chubby hands. Harry looks like a kid himself in the photos. He’s certainly not any older than twenty-five. Zayn wonders what drives a young twenty-something to adopt a boy on his own, and then he wonders if he’ll ever get to hear _that_ story.

Zayn settles on a stool while Styles fills up his electric kettle and turns it on. He putters around the kitchen, grabbing two mugs and pulling out milk and sugar.

“I’ve already set a plate for you, just in case you weren’t coming,” Styles says. “Summer let me know that you don’t always eat dinner when you really get into your editing, so.”

Zayn gapes at Styles. “You fixed me a plate?”

“‘Course,” Styles says, frowning at Zayn and looking like a disgruntled cat in the process. “You know, Jeremy and I cook every night, even though we weren’t eating it together there for a bit. It’s good -- the routine. I read it in a parenting book somewhere. It’s a bit of teamwork in the evening and then he tells me about his day. I probably wouldn’t see him otherwise since he’s so busy and angsty recently. And I don’t want my son to be _completely_ useless in front of a stove.”

“Right. Doesn’t mean you need to make me a plate even if I’m not coming.”

Styles shakes his head, his curls slipping out of his bun and flopping about his face. “Yes, I do. I -- I’ve been such shit to you, and this is honestly the least I could do. It’s just a steak and potatoes, but I still had quinoa salad, so I put that in a separate bowl. That’s got cucumbers, sundried tomatoes, and a bit of avocado. Summer said you might frown up at it -- she talks about you like you’re a caveman sometimes, you know -- but it’s really quite good.”

Zayn blinks. He’s suddenly aware that Styles’ flat actually smells very lovely. Like spices and gravy. It’s a very warm aroma, comforting and familiar. Zayn can’t remember the last time he had a proper home cooked meal. He mostly survives on Frosties and Weetabix, and Zayn is very, very hungry. He’d been planning on stopping by Chipotle on the way back to the tube, grabbing a bowl full of cheese while Summer frowned at him and lectured him about his eating habits, but Zayn doesn’t mind changing his plans. “Could I -- erm. Could I actually try that now?”

Styles grins smugly. “Summer knows you well. She didn’t even want to put cling film on the plate. Yeah, sure. Let me warm everything back up for you. Still want the tea?”

“Yes, please,” Zayn says. “Cheers.”

Styles goes back to puttering about the kitchen. Zayn watches him and scolds himself for noticing more details about his appearance. The wide expanse of his back and how the basketball jersey clings to the muscles there. The dusty almost blond stubble on Styles’ chin and upper lip. Zayn thinks he can see the head of Styles’ cock through his sweats, too. Zayn may be a ghoul who haunts the British Library whenever he’s not haunting his own flat, but he knows enough to recognize that Styles is well fit. Zayn thinks he knew this about Styles already, but recently Zayn had been too distracted by the man’s twattishness.

Zayn isn’t sure how he would describe Styles now, though. He’s still certainly a twat. He still cavorts about the PTA like he’s got a giant rod up his arse. But Zayn can begrudgingly admit that Styles is sweet, too, at least in this moment. He didn’t need to send Zayn a Thank You email and he didn’t need to invite Zayn and Summer into his home. He didn’t need to try and make amends.

Maybe Zayn can admit that Styles is a little sweet and very eccentric. And maybe Zayn can also admit that Styles has a really, _really_ nice bum. And he cooks with his son and doesn’t mind when Jeremy comes to Zayn’s flat after school. Zayn still thinks Styles needs to work on not being such a passive aggressive git, but he can also admit that Styles isn’t all that bad. Not really.

“Thanks, Styles,” Zayn chirps, blushing a little against his will. “For the food and for letting Summer and I come over. I appreciate it.”

Styles turns, startled but obviously pleased. It’s a much better look on him than his scowls and pouts. “Yeah, mate. Like I said -- I’ve been on a bit of a tear. I think I’ve got my head on a little straighter now. So yeah. No problem.”

There’s a moment where they look at each other and smile and it makes Zayn feel sunny and warm inside. But then there’s a huge bang and a guffaw from somewhere within the loft and Styles puts his plates down on the counter, cursing “bloody teenagers” under his breath.

 

Zayn isn’t quite sure when it happens, but at some point in the school year his flat becomes Summer’s go-to hangout location. Sometimes she invites her mate Amira over, other times she’ll call up Jessica Payne and ask for help with maths. But most of the time it’s Jeremy who accompanies her home. They set up camp in the living room after basketball practice and grumble over their homework before watching basketball highlights from the day before. Zayn always brings them snacks and pretends like he’s working when really he’s watching the kids bicker over sports things he couldn’t ever hope to understand.

One evening, Zayn gets a Skype call from Gigi while he’s sitting in the living room with Jeremy and Summer. Zayn sets the laptop on the coffee table so that Gigi can watch some of the basketball highlights Jeremy and Summer are marathoning and understand Zayn’s suffering.

“Your hair looks really nice,” Jeremy says when Summer stands up to find another video. Zayn agrees, with the way some of the winter sunlight is filtering through the blinds, golden-blonde and wavy from being in braids all day. Jeremy tilts his head to the side. “It’s different, right?”

“I got a touch-up,” Summer says. “Thank God. My roots were starting to look dreadful.”

Jeremy’s eyes widen like a whole new world just opened before him and it’s entirely full of lies. “Really? You’re -- you’re not a real blonde? _No_.”

“Yup,” Summer says with relish. “I’m a bottle blonde and I love it.”

Zayn tries not to snort at the two of them. Teenagers are so fucking weird.

“You should show me pictures of your natural hair color,” Jeremy says. “And then you should dye it gray next so you can look like your dad.”

Zayn glares at Jeremy. “Another snarky comment out of you about my age and I’ll take those crisps away.”

Jeremy holds the bag of crisps even tighter to his chest, certainly smashing some of them in the process. “You wouldn’t,” he says, outraged. “You love pumping me full of sugar and starches and sending me back to my dad. Don’t deny it.”

Summer laughs. “He’s got you there, Baba.”

“I do no such thing,” Zayn says. “I just provide you both with snacks. It’s not my fault Jeremy never eats the fruit.”

“Fruit is for Satan,” Jeremy answers.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Summer replies.

“Satan tempted Adam and Eve with a fruit,” Jeremy says. “Ergo, fruit is for Satan. This is why I should eat all the sugar and starches I want. Satan didn’t tempt man with Space Raiders.”

Summer and Zayn both blink at Jeremy. Zayn can’t remember the last time the both of them were absolutely speechless. Jeremy smiles, inordinately pleased with himself, and upends the rest of the crisps into his mouth.

“Zayn?” Gigi calls from the laptop. “I think I’ve had enough basketball.”

“Mom, there’s no such thing as too much basketball,” Summer yells, outraged.

“True!” Jeremy agrees. “Ball is life!”

“Oh, there they go,” Zayn mumbles, scooping the laptop into his arms and relocating to his bedroom while Summer and Jeremy continue to yell about the importance and life-altering properties of basketball. He sits on his bed and grabs a pair of headphones off his bedside table, plugging them in and smiling at Gigi once he’s situated.

“Was that Summer’s boyfriend talking?” Gigi asks. “Harry Styles’ son, right?”

“Jeremy isn’t her boyfriend,” Zayn says quickly. Then he pauses and thinks about it. Summer and Jeremy _do_ spend a lot of time together. They share clothes and do their homework together and go to each other’s basketball games. Jeremy even asked Zayn what he should get Summer for Christmas, insisting that he had to get her “something special” for being such a good friend. Or at least Zayn had assumed it was for being a good friend. Maybe it was because Jeremy’s trying to woo his daughter. Oh God. “At least -- I didn’t think he’s her boyfriend. Maybe he is?”

Gigi rolls her eyes. “Good job there, idiot.”

“If he’s her boyfriend, I shouldn’t let him come over to the house all the time, right?” Zayn asks, suddenly feeling very anxious. “Like, that would give them the impression that I’m encouraging sex.”

“Mom and David let me have Cody over all the time when I was their age,” Gigi shrugs.

“And you and Cody were having sex,” Zayn points out. “That isn’t the best example.”

“You and what’s-her-name were practically living together as teenagers,” Gigi continues, almost like she hadn’t bothered listening to Zayn at all.

“Perrie?” Zayn asks. Then he adds, “And you know Perrie and I were fucking too. Again, a poor example. I need you to provide a platonic example.”

“No,” Gigi says. “I was talking about your other ex-girlfriend. Before Perrie.”

“Rebecca?” Zayn asks. “Or do you mean Geneva? Cher?”

Gigi frowns. Nonsensically enough, her lips looked pinched and her eyes appear a little wounded. Zayn and Gigi haven’t been together in years and Zayn’s given up any hope or desire of ever rekindling their romantic relationship, but that doesn’t stop one or both of them from getting jealous every so often, even over things that happened twenty fucking years ago, apparently.

“How many girls did you live with before you met me?” Gigi asks. “I thought it was only Perrie and Geneva.”

“We’re getting distracted,” Zayn says, waving his arms in front of the laptop screen. “We’re supposed to be talking about Summer and Jeremy!”

“I don’t think you should be worried that she’s having sex,” Gigi says. She’s smiling but Zayn knows from years of marriage and close friendship that she’s about to saying something very, very cruel. “Summer didn’t inherit your whore genes.”

Zayn winces. “That wasn’t called for, Gigi.”

Gigi ignores him. “But if you’re so concerned about your daughter’s virtue, have a conversation with Jeremy’s father. You could also try being more observant of your own daughter for once.”

“Gigi -- ”

“I’ve got to go,” Gigi says. She flips her hair out of her eyes and smiles blithely. “I’ll see you later.”

And just like that, Gigi hangs up the call. Zayn manfully resists the urge to bang his head against the wall.

 

Surprisingly enough, the thought that Summer and Jeremy might be a couple does not leave Zayn’s mind over the next few days. Zayn knows that he could easily talk to Summer about it, but that’s weird and he’d really rather not. Zayn knows that he could have a conversation with Styles, too, but he doesn’t want to do that, either. They’ve only just recently moved from “Enemies” to “Acquaintances.” Zayn doesn’t want to muck that all up by asking Styles to keep his hormone-ridden son away from his precious Summer.

Fortunately -- or unfortunately -- fate intervenes and forces these awkward conversations on Zayn anyway.

Summer and Jeremy had headed back to Styles’ loft immediately after school. It’s the last day before Winter Break and Jeremy and Styles are heading to Cheshire for the hols. Summer’s boarding a Virgin Atlantic flight to LAX in a few days, too. Zayn would’ve liked nothing more than to monopolize her time while she was still around, but he understands that it’s important to let her socialize.

The doorman sees Zayn to the lifts, same as he always does, and Zayn rings the buzzer once he gets up to Styles’ loft. Styles smiles and grabs Zayn by the arm almost the minute he opens the door, yanking Zayn into the flat.

“Er,” Styles says, letting go of Zayn’s arm just as quickly as he’d grabbed it. “Sorry. Hi. I just -- there was something weird going on in Jeremy’s room earlier.”

“Weird?” Zayn asks, suddenly concerned. “Weird how?”

“Weird like noises?” Styles says.

Zayn tries not to yell at Styles for answering a question with a question. Instead he says, “You know I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

Zayn didn’t know that Styles was capable of embarrassment, but he’s suddenly very pink. It would be cute if Styles didn’t insist on being so fucking annoying. “Noises like sex noises?” Styles says. “Grunts and giggles and banging? So noises like I think they were having sex?”

Zayn opens his mouth and closes it. His head gives a warning thud and Zayn very slowly counts to ten. This is probably the worst day of his life.

“I mean -- my step-dad walked in on me having a threesome when I was Jeremy’s age,” Styles barrels on. “And I was sleeping with a thirty-year-old woman when I was seventeen. She was very nice. So in all honesty, they’re doing much better than I was as a teenager. They’d be an age-appropriate couple. Both honors students. And they’re best friends. It’s almost sweet?”

“Your son ploughing my daughter is not sweet,” Zayn somehow manages to spit out.

“Rude,” Styles answers, wounded. “I think they’re cute. And I hardly doubt Jeremy was ‘ploughing’ Summer. Come on. He likes her too much. It was probably more fumbling than ploughing. Sweet, age-appropriate floundering. Like fish on a deck.”

“I can’t have this conversation with you, or with anyone,” Zayn answers. “My daughter -- nope. _Nope_. No. Can’t do this.”

Styles crosses his arms over his chest and glares at Zayn. “Don’t tell me you’re going to get all weird and shame-y about this.”

“Shame-y?” Zayn demands. “She’s fifteen! We can talk about her sexual awakening when she’s eighteen! Or maybe after I’ve died!”

“Okay,” Styles says. “See, this is why I was hesitant about bringing it up to you. You’re acting completely irrationally.”

“Irrational?” Zayn shrieks. “You’re the one who’s completely fine with his kid having sex a few doors down! It’s a bio-hazard!”

“Oh, I didn’t say that,” Styles answers. “I would much prefer they did this at school or the park or somewhere.”

“School or the park?” Zayn parrots. “What is _wrong_ with you? Do you want them to get arrested for public indecency?”

Styles seems poised to fire off another idiotic remark when Jeremy and Summer come walking into the living room. From first glance they both look completely fine. Summer’s wearing an oversized turtleneck sweater with the wrists cuffed, and Jeremy’s lounging around in basketball shorts and a Rolling Stones T-shirt. But Zayn can’t help but wonder if Summer’s turtleneck is covering up love bites and if Jeremy’s in such comfy clothes because the day’s activities have tired him out.

Zayn hates himself for even having these thoughts. This is very much the worst day of Zayn’s life. Even worse than the day he signed his divorce papers.

“C’mon, Summer,” Zayn snaps. “The doorman’s probably already called a cab and it’s waiting outside.”

Summer frowns, looking between Styles and Zayn warily. “Is something wrong -- ?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Zayn says, sighing and trying not to pinch the bridge of his nose. “We just have to go.”

Summer and Jeremy exchange a glance. Jeremy shrugs and brings Summer in for a hug. It probably would be cute if it weren’t Zayn’s daughter and Styles’ son. Zayn wishes he could set Jeremy on fire with his mind, then feels bad about it.

“Night, Styles,” Zayn says as he walks to the door, Summer trailing a few steps behind. “Night, Styles, Jr. Have a good trip and a Happy Christmas.”

“Night, Mr. Malik!” Jeremy says brightly.

Styles says nothing. Instead, he mouths something that looks like “Don’t be a weirdo!” and slams his door behind Zayn and Summer.

 

The doorman had indeed called a cab while Zayn was up having an awkward conversation with Styles about their children’s sexual proclivities, and a taxi is idling in front of the building, waiting for them. Zayn and Summer climb into the back and Zayn rattles off his address while the driver peels away from the kerb. Summer prattles on about the last day of lessons before the break while Zayn tries not to have an aneurysm and probably fails.

He honestly only lasts about five minutes before bursting out with, “You’re not -- you’re not sleeping with Jeremy, are you?”

The look that drops onto Summer’s face could best be described as abject horror. Zayn is sure his face isn’t doing much better. He is not ready to have this conversation with his daughter. The proper Sex Talk. Zayn had assumed it was still a few years off, but shit, Summer’s already fifteen. Fifteen, intelligent, astonishingly mature, and perhaps most distressingly, very beautiful. Those disgusting, pasty boys at her school are probably all over her. Damn it, why did Zayn choose to procreate with a model again?

“No!” Summer screeches. “ _Baba_ \-- ”

“I mean, I couldn’t like, be mad if you were,” Zayn hedges. “Well, obviously I could be. I could be livid. But I was doing worse at your age. I was doing worse at like, thirteen -- ”

“Stop it,” Summer moans, putting her hands over her ears. “Oh my God. Baba. Please. Just stop while you’re ahead.”

“I’d just want you to use protection,” Zayn continues. “We can take you to get on the pill.” Zayn pauses, wondering how Gigi would handle this. Gigi would probably tell Summer stories from her wild modeling days and pull Summer in to take selfies, captioning them with witty, brilliant things. And then she’d take Summer shopping. But Gigi’s the fun parent and Zayn’s the one who has to have the awkward sex talk, apparently. “Wait. Did your mum take you to get on the pill already?”

“I’m not on the pill,” Summer mutters.

“We’ll sort that then,” Zayn says. “And maybe, just like for future reference? Maybe pick someone better? Jeremy’s father is a twat. It might be hereditary.”

“I’m not sleeping with Jeremy!” Summer says again, flailing her arms about and almost smacking Zayn in the face. “Baba -- I -- I’m a lesbian!”

From the front of the car, the driver coughs politely.

Zayn blinks, his mind racing. He thinks of how little interest Summer has shown in boys until befriending Jeremy at the beginning of the school year. He thinks of how she very rarely said she thought her male classmates were attractive. And, perhaps most damningly, he thinks of the Beyoncé posters on Summer’s walls and how loudly she screeched when they saw Queen B perform “Partition” at the O2.

“I think I already knew that,” Zayn admits. “And I owe Aunt Doniya £20.”

Summer looks unimpressed. She looks so unimpressed that Zayn can see echoes of her mother in her face, like the time Gigi’s family held this weird three legged race and Zayn and Gigi were strapped together and Zayn forgot that he was tremendously out of shape and ended up coughing up his lungs in the middle of the park while Gigi stood by with her arms on her hips. That might’ve been the beginning of the end, looking back on it.

“You know, your mother’s a lesbian,” Zayn puts in helpfully.

“Mom’s bisexual,” Summer says. “Like you.”

“We’re not talking about me.”

Summer appears to be counting in her head. When she speaks again, it’s to say, “We _are_ talking about you. We’re talking about you and Jeremy’s dad now, actually. He’s not a twat. He’s really nice -- and single and lonely, too. So when are you going to ask him out?”

Zayn almost chokes and dies sputtering on his own saliva. “ _What_?”

“You like him,” Summer says, her voice dipping into that annoyingly certain way of speaking that all teenagers seem to adapt with ease. “Jeremy says that Harry really likes you, too, even though he won’t admit it directly. You boys are all stupid and stubborn like that.”

“I don’t like Jeremy’s dad,” Zayn replies. “Like, at all. He’s really quite annoying.”

Summer rolls her eyes. “You look at him like you did that week you and Uncle Louis were shagging.”

If Zayn weren’t so busy hoping that a hole would open up underneath him and swallow him whole, he would be able to to appreciate just how deftly his daughter was able to shift the conversation away from her and onto her father. Zayn taught her well in the art of deflection. But as it is, Zayn’s busy trying not to swallow his own tongue. “Me and Uncle Louis -- ”

“Were totally a thing,” Summer interjects. “I was ten, Baba. Not blind and deaf. Helen Keller could see what you two were doing.”

“Helen Keller was a nice lady,” Zayn says. “Very kind. Wish I could say the same about my daughter.”

“I spend far too much time with you to be nice,” Summer says with a grin. “So! You and Harry. Sitting in a tree. F -- ”

“Careful,” Zayn warns.

“-- is for friends who do stuff together,” Summer recovers. “U is for you and me. N is for anywhere and anytime at all -- ”

“What makes you think I like Jeremy’s dad?” Zayn interrupts, even though normally he loves when Summer sings _Spongebob Squarepants_ songs for his amusement. “We’ve never even had a real conversation outside of the PTA.”

Summer looks baffled. “What are you talking about? You chat with him all the time now. Sometimes Jeremy and I come out of my room, realize that you two are still chatting, and head back in for another twenty minutes. You’re totally smitten,” she says. “Like, I know you think he’s a twat, but you can think someone’s a twat and still like them loads. I recognize that Jeremy is a knob but he’s still my best friend.”

“And you’re not sleeping with him,” Zayn clarifies. “Because you’re a lesbian?”

“And I’m not sleeping with him,” Summer confirms. “Because I’m a lesbian and he’s my _best mate_ , but not in the cuddle buddies kind of way. He’s more like my little brother, really, and it’d be super weird to be with him if you and his dad end up married. That’s way too _Cruel Intentions_ for real life.”

Zayn thinks of Styles. Of his wide eyes and wider smile. The idea of being married -- again, to anyone -- sounds hellish. For Zayn, marriage was one series of disappointments after another, and he doesn’t feel like he needs a ring and a ceremony in order to be happy. And he’s probably too set in his ways to effectively share his life with someone new again. But he’ll let his daughter have this. He knows she just wants him to be happy. Jeremy probably wants the same for his dad. And that’s why Jeremy and Summer have been conspiring to do -- whatever the hell this is. Stupid cliche _Parent Trap_ shit.

But then Zayn remembers what Styles said. The weird noises coming from Jeremy’s room. “Jeremy’s dad said he heard you two giggling and like -- banging against the furniture. He thought you two were having sex. Really loudly and awkwardly. What were you two doing if you weren’t shagging?”

Summer opens her mouth and closes it. A flush rushes to her cheeks.

“We were wrestling,” Summer says. “I bet him that I could pin him. We went back to his room and wrestled and -- and then we watched lesbian porn.”

“I’m not asking you any more questions today,” Zayn resolves. And he does just that.

 

Zayn and Summer spend the next few days together, lounging about the flat and watching shit telly. Her trip to the States looms ominously on the calendar. She packs and re-packs, thrumming with barely concealed excitement. She talks about how eager she is to see her mum and Aunt Bella and Uncle Anwar. She throws an extra bag into her luggage in anticipation of all the gifts she’ll inevitably receive. Zayn wishes her enthusiasm was contagious. Instead, all Zayn can think about is being alone in his flat, eating takeout and waiting for Summer to return.

The night before Summer’s flight, Zayn makes a curry and bakes a few biscuits. They sit at their tiny bar and Summer hums over the food, smiling like she did when she was a little girl. It doesn’t seem like so long ago that she was five and wearing pigtails, slurping spaghetti into her mouth and grinning through gap teeth. She had been taller than her classmates, chubby and a little graceless, and Zayn knew it was hard for her sometimes, being the awkward daughter of a supermodel.

Sometimes Zayn misses Summer as she was, that five-year-old girl who idolized him and had a gap in her teeth. But then Zayn remembers how much living Summer still has to do, how much growing he still has to look forward to. Zayn has loved Summer at every stage of her life, and he’s so eager to see just what kind of woman she’ll become.

“I think Mom’s going to take me to see a few more unis while I’m with her,” Summer says. “She’s been hinting, but she hasn’t said which ones.”

“You’ve seen all of the big ones you’re interested in already, haven’t you?” Zayn asks. “Stanford and UCLA?”

Summer lifts a shoulder. “Maybe she’s taking me to see schools that aren’t in California or New York. UConn or Notre Dame. Arizona.”

“Please don’t make me fly to Arizona to see you,” Zayn says, half-jokingly, half-deathly serious. “And I would think Stanford is more impressive in case you want to go for a backup career as an MP.”

“I don’t think I want to be politician, Baba,” Summer says. “And I know we haven’t talked about it in a while -- not since Mom brought up the whole IMG thing last summer -- but I don’t think I want to be a model, either.”

Zayn can’t help the little startled noise that comes out of his mouth. “Really? I mean -- I think I knew you didn’t really want to go into law or politics. But you don’t want to be a model like your mum?”

“It could be fun, I dunno. But I don’t think it’s my great passion, no,” Summer says. “I actually think it’d be fun to keep playing basketball or football.”

“Would you play for the US or England in the Olympics?” Zayn asks. “How you answer affects how much you will receive in my will.”

“Maybe I’ll play for France,” Summer retorts haughtily.

Zayn frowns. “Never say that again.”

“Or Germany. I could rotate,” Summer suggests. “Maybe I’ll play for all of the Axis powers.”

“You think you’re really funny, but honestly, you’re not,” Zayn says, even as he laughs.

Summer lifts a shoulder and smiles. But then just as quickly, she sobers, biting her lip and looking nervous. “Baba, can I tell you something?”

Zayn cradles a mug of tea between his hands and nods. “Of course, birdie.”

“I -- I just worry about you sometimes,” Summer admits. “I don’t want you to be lonely. I’m going to uni in a few years. And then you’ll be here. Alone in this flat.”

“There’s a difference between lonely and alone,” Zayn says. “And I’d probably get a dog. Maybe two dogs. I’d like a pitbull.”

Summer snorts. “Dogs are lovely. I’m not disagreeing with you there. But you’ve put your love life on the backburner for so long. I know that’s what being a parent is all about, but you deserve someone, Baba.”

Zayn suddenly knows exactly where this conversation is going. “And you think that someone is Harry Styles.”

Summer nods. She looks exceptionally earnest, hazel eyes wide and a little watery. “I really do. Baba, you -- I feel like you and Harry forget that Jeremy and I are even in the room sometimes. You get into your own weird little world. I’ve never seen you look at anyone like how you look at Harry. Not even Mom.”

Zayn squirms. “You know I loved your mum very much -- ”

“I accepted a really long time ago that you and Mom loved each other a ton but just weren’t made to work long-term,” Summer interrupts. She shrugs, tossing her hair over her shoulder like she didn’t completely summarize truths that Zayn took years to come to terms with. “That doesn’t make your love any less real or important. But you and Harry -- I think you could be really great together if you both stopped being so bloody boneheaded and talked to each other.”

Zayn blinks and looks at his daughter. _Really_ looks at her. She has Gigi’s smile and Zayn’s eyes. She has Gigi’s height but Zayn’s build. She’s the best bits of the two of them, but she’s completely her own person, too. She’s got Gigi’s kind heart and Zayn’s resourcefulness, but this unflagging belief in the inherent goodness of the universe is all her own.

“You really want me to try it with Styles.” Zayn pauses, amends, “With Harry.”

“I do, Baba,” Summer says. “What’s stopping you?”

“You,” Zayn says.

Summer frowns. Her fingers flit nervously. “Am I really? How?”

“Myself, then,” Zayn says. “I -- I never wanted to be that parent who introduced people to their kid, had the kid fall in love with them, and then have to pick up the pieces when it all went to shit.”

Summer tilts her head. “Harry’s bound to be thinking the same thing, especially after everything that happened over the summer. I think that’s a normal fear. But Jeremy and I -- we’re both turning sixteen this year. We’re not little kids anymore.”

Zayn bites his lip and nods. Sometimes Zayn wonders if Summer’s ever been an innocent little kid and feels bad about it. She had to do a lot of growing up at a young age. She’s been flying alone from London to New York or Los Angeles ever since she was seven. Her Grandpa on Gigi’s side used to take Summer to real estate meetings for fun. Hell, Summer’s sat in on enough of Zayn’s lectures at UCL that she should probably have an honorary law degree. She’s more certain of herself and in her own abilities than Zayn’s ever been, and she’s seen more of the world than even Gigi did growing up. In her own way, Summer is more of an adult than Gigi and Zayn have ever pretended to be.

Summer pulls a hair tie from her wrist, shaking her hair out before tying it up into a bun. “I always used to think you were a superhero, Baba,” she continues. “Heroes are afraid but they still do what they need to do.”

“I’m not a hero,” Zayn says. “ _You_ are. You’ve always been the fearless one. I never quite figured out who you got it from.”

Summer laughs. “Okay, fine. I’ll be Wonder Woman or Xena. But I’ve decided that helping you get over yourself is my side mission for the time being.”

Zayn blushes, rubbing his hands over his beard nervously. “Okay. If that -- fine. Whatever makes you happy, little _parinda_.”

Summer grins and turns pink at the old pet name, just like Zayn knew she would. “Awesome. We can talk more about Harry when I get back from the States. I’ll clear the plates and then I’m going to brush my teeth for bed. Night-night, Baba.”

“Night, Summer,” Zayn says. He pulls Summer in close, grins over the top of her head. She smells like those bath bomb things from Lush and a bit like sweat, but she also somehow manages to smell like Styles’ flat. Like spices and a home cooked meal. Maybe Zayn’s imagining it -- maybe he’s not. Maybe the hoodie Summer’s wearing is one of Jeremy’s and it still smells like him.

Zayn lets Summer get ready for bed. He makes his way to his own bedroom and pulls out his laptop, reading over his editor’s notes, but he doesn’t take in a word.


	3. The End

The next few weeks pass like a montage in a cheesy romantic comedy. Summer returns from her trip back to her mum’s with a backpack full of presents -- trainers and expensive denim from her aunt and uncle, a Tiffany’s bracelet from her Grandpa, a shiny new watch from Gigi. She has a few days to adjust to the time difference and then she’s back in school again, falling into the routine of revising and working out at the Centre. Zayn very reluctantly returns to all of the tasks cluttering his very busy plate, too.

Winter gives way to spring, and the lashing, blustery rains of January and February transform into fluffy white clouds, hesitant sunshine, and fair temperatures in March. The PTA’s gearing up for prom and other year-end festivities, and Zayn’s almost done with his book. He’s only got the tiniest of loose ends to resolve, and then the manuscript is off to the reviewers to fact check his findings. His editors are pleased, as are the administration at UCL, who have been not so patiently waiting for him to return from his sabbatical. Zayn’s busy trying to get everything done, same as always, but for once his work feels meaningful instead of mind-numbing. The arrival of spring seems like the freshest of beginnings, and for once Zayn actually feels like celebrating.

Summer’s in an equally pleasant mood. She’s like a flower, that one, unfurling at the first hint of sunlight, and her good mood is contagious. She cajoles her father into heading to Trafalgar Square for St. Patrick’s Day and they “just happen” to run into Styles and Jeremy outside of the tube station. Styles is already a little pissed, wearing green with a cup of Guinness in hand. Jeremy is equally delighted, wearing a Boston Celtics basketball jersey and eyeing the huge crowds with slight trepidation.

The four of them end up meandering around the festival together, Jeremy and Summer arm in arm, heads bent close together like the thickest of thieves. Styles keeps snickering at the two of them, nudging Zayn and pointing. They look nothing alike, Jeremy and Summer, but Zayn sees now what Summer meant about them being almost like siblings. They tease each other mercilessly, but they’re encouraging, too. They truly do care about each other. Zayn’s glad they each have that friendship to rely on.

And if Styles continues bumping his shoulder into Zayn’s all day, even going so far as to sling an arm around Zayn when they stop to watch a troupe of young dancers, nobody else has to know.

 

Summer and Jeremy’s coursework increases leading up to their exams in May, but their basketball season is more or less over, minus optional tournament games in Germany that the two are still vacillating on about attending. The kids are both thrilled with their newfound free time, and they insist on family hang-outs that seem more like opportunities to get their fathers together than anything else. Summer insists that Zayn head down to the West End to scoop up cheap day-of theater tickets for _Mamma Mia_ and _The Phantom of the Opera_. Jeremy prints out a list of London brunch destinations, and they steadily start making their way through the offerings. They trek to Thames Barrier Park and Styles and Zayn spend the whole day traipsing around the fountains and flower gardens while Summer and Jeremy play an aggressive game of basketball under cloud-streaked skies. It’s all very sweet, very chaste. The sorts of activities two kids would brainstorm while playing matchmaker, so it does almost feel like Zayn and Styles are properly courting each other. Zayn supposes they might be.

Zayn starts to learn more about Styles, like how he studied for a year at QMUL before dropping out. He also learns that Styles used to busk around London, loitering around Trafalgar Square and unleashing his boyishly good looks on poor unsuspecting tourists. Zayn learns that yes, Styles was one of the lucky ones who got discovered by a major label and was able to parlay that into a successful career behind the scenes, and yes, he does miss Los Angeles. But Styles is evasive on other things -- details about the man who brought him back to London after so many years, as well as the circumstances that allowed him to adopt Jeremy as a young twenty-something. Zayn thinks his curiosity may every well eat him alive.

Zayn and Styles chat about their lives and their aspirations for their children and trade advice that’s been passed down from their own parents and grandparents. They talk about their favorite restaurants and musicians, and smirk at each other when they both confess idolizing Pink Floyd. Occasionally, when Jeremy and Summer are otherwise occupied, Styles will grab Zayn’s hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, but he always does it quickly, guiltily, like he doesn’t want the kids to see. And once, after they’d stopped at a restaurant before heading to the theater, Zayn impulsively pulled Styles in close for a quick peck. They’d both been a little tipsy, making eyes at each other all night while their kids bantered, and it’d felt like a relief when Zayn finally got his hands around Styles’ waist, sighing at the twang of Irish Coffee on his lips.

They haven’t properly talked about it -- what they are, what they hell they’re doing, what the expectations are, if any even exist. Zayn hardly even knows if what they’re doing is real. He doesn’t like the uncertainty and he doesn’t know if Styles is just going along with all of this to make Jeremy happy. The whole thing makes Zayn feel insecure, like he could be a stand-in while Styles works through his issues with that guy he was seeing from Manchester.

But Zayn does like how sturdy and unyielding Styles feels pressed next to him. He likes watching Styles with Jeremy, how Jeremy smiles more at his dad these days. He likes Styles’ slow grins during their ridiculous PTA meetings, like they’re sharing a secret. And sometimes Zayn feels more than a little breathless when they glance at each other across the room, sure in the moment that Styles only has eyes for him.

 

In typical teenager fashion, Jeremy and Summer decide they would like to join their respective basketball teams in Germany for the big tournament games at the end of April, deigning to tell their fathers only two days before the payment deadline. Styles, pushover that he is, only rolls his eyes and cuts Jeremy a check, but Zayn throws a strop, telling Summer she needs to be more considerate of her father’s time and finances.

Summer ends up paying a quarter of the fee herself using money she saved up from last year’s Eid. Zayn feels bad about it and offers to pay Summer back, but she’s strangely insistent that her father is right and that she should’ve told Zayn that she’d intended to play in the tourney all along anyway. It’s one of the stranger conversations Zayn has had with Summer, one where Zayn feels as though she’s the parent, not him, but if she wants to pay for her fucking tourney, Zayn’s going to support her decision.

 

The week before the tournament, Summer and Jeremy do a few hours of community service coaching primary school kids before heading back to Styles’ loft. Zayn knows that Summer can easily take the tube back home on her own, but he’s feeling strangely restless. He’d spent his day checking emails, writing a quick piece for _Al Jazeera_ , and following-up on some details for the senior prom. He needs to go outside. He needs to talk to a real human being. And maybe -- just maybe -- he needs to spend some time with Styles.

So Zayn texts Styles and lets him know that he’s heading over. Styles responds quickly and enthusiastically enough, telling Zayn that he and the kids were actually in the middle of making bangers and mash, and that Zayn’s more than welcome to come over.

The loft smells like mashed potatoes and gravy when Styles lets him in. Jeremy and Summer are sat in the living room with the purple sofa, dirty dishes piled at their feet and textbooks propped open in their laps. Both kids are staring despondently at their work and Jeremy’s got the tip of his pencil in his mouth.

“They were talking about heading to that arcade down the street,” Styles whispers conspiratorially as he leads Zayn through to the kitchen. “I told them they could go after they did their maths.”

Sometimes Zayn appreciates how much of an evil genius Styles is. “They won’t finish their revising until late.”

“I know,” Styles answers gleefully. “So I won’t have to hear about any stupid arcade games tonight. Are you hungry? Do you want a plate? I made beef sausages for you.”

Zayn takes his seat at the counter and watches as Styles piles mashed potatoes and gravy onto Zayn’s plate, with two thick sausages arranged on top. Zayn murmurs his thanks while Styles continues to flit around looking for an acceptable bottle of wine.

Zayn blinks and for a moment feels as though his whole life has been hurtling toward this exact moment. He’d been feeling restless and moody all day, and his only thought to get rid of the strange, itchy feeling was to go over to Styles’ loft and spend a few minutes with him. Now Zayn’s here and everything just feels _right_. Settled. Summer’s kicked back on the sofa doing her maths with her best friend next to her. These days, it’s hard to catch Jeremy without a smile on his face, recounting some story or in the middle of a joke. Jeremy’s doing so much better in school, too. Summer says he’s more confident in class and that he’s caught the eye of one of the most popular older girls at school.

Styles seems more sure of himself, as well. He can still be a complete pain in the arse during some of their PTA meetings, but he’s significantly more relaxed, especially now that Aiden is actually fulfilling more of his duties as Co-Chair. Their meetings are far more efficient these days, too.

Zayn’s full of fondness as he watches Styles zip around the kitchen. Styles has finally found an acceptable bottle of red, but now he’s desperately searching for a corkscrew. He’s exasperated as he looks through cupboards and drawers and Zayn has to hide his smile behind his hand.

“You left it in that jar next to the refrigerator, babe,” Zayn says.

Styles blinks at him, bottle of red still in hand, but he dutifully walks over to the blue jar full of miscellaneous things that he keeps stashed next to the refrigerator. Styles lifts the top and pokes around, and there, of course, is his corkscrew.

Styles flushes as he removes the cork and pours Zayn a decent sized glass. Zayn toasts Styles quietly, letting his eyes roam over Styles’ body. He’s wearing a Henley and jean shorts, and he should look ridiculous, like some out of touch dad, but he doesn’t. Zayn pokes at his attraction, pushes down on the rising current of his lust. He reminds himself that he doesn’t know what he and Styles are. They’re probably nothing. Just friends who hold each other’s hands and kiss when they’re a little drunk.

“You just called me ‘babe’, you know,” Styles says, considering Zayn over the rim of his wineglass.

Zayn tilts his head, thinks back. It’d just kind of slipped out, but Zayn doesn’t regret it. “‘Spose I did, yeah.”

“Oh,” Styles answers. He’s blushing and Zayn finds it far more adorable than he should. “Yeah. Okay then. Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

Zayn digs into his dinner, but he still catches it when Styles smiles into his glass.

 

Just as Styles anticipated, Summer and Jeremy don’t wrap up their maths until fairly late. Summer is yawning into her fist like she did when she was a little girl, pouting down at her trigonometry. Jeremy, to his credit, had long given up on revising and is instead lazily flipping through one of the magazines that Styles got in the post.

Zayn and Styles had been working, leaning over Styles laptop and haggling over potential prom themes to propose to the Student Association. Styles’ aesthetic leans toward the gaudy and ridiculous, whereas Zayn has taste. They aren’t even the leads on decorations, but they might as well be. Magnificent fucking Melissa Sampson was supposed to handle all of this, but ever since her family was outed as bigots, Mrs. Sampson hasn’t really contributed to the PTA much. Zayn figured it was all for the best. The prom would probably channel the Southern Confederacy circa 1863 otherwise.

“Baba, I can’t do this anymore,” Summer complains. “I think I’m going to need Jessica Payne’s help at tutoring tomorrow.”

“Right,” Zayn answers, standing up from his crouch over Styles’ laptop and popping his shoulders. He glances at the time and groans. It’s going on eleven pm, and even though the tube is still running, Zayn’s feeling lazy. He supposes he’ll ask Styles’ doorman to call a cab.   
“Guess we’ll get going. Grab your things, birdie.”

Summer diligently loads her bag while Jeremy looks on in faint amusement. “You’re so bloody organized,” Jeremy remarks.

“I’m _bloody_ organized?” Summer mocks. “Look at you, becoming a proper Brit! It’s about time.”

Jeremy flushes, but presses on, saying, “Well, you are. It’s fucking -- I mean. It’s freaking weird.”

Styles sighs. “You still said the full word. Put a pound in the swear jar, Jezza.”

“You might as well make him put in a fiver for all the good it’s been doing him,” Zayn remarks.

“Hey, Mr. Malik, you’re supposed to be on my side!” Jeremy proclaims, but he digs his wallet out and dutifully puts a pound into the very stuffed swear jar on the counter by the sink. Zayn had asked once what the money would even go to, and Styles had shrugged and said he’d probably use it to buy Jeremy another pair of shoes. Zayn thinks that kind of defeats the point.

Summer finishes loading up her bag and slings it over her shoulder with relish. Her and Jeremy hug and begin walking into the hallway. Zayn follows them but Styles grabs his shoulder when they reach the front door.

“The basketball teams will be flying to Germany for those bloody championships on Saturday,” Styles whispers, lounging against the doorframe. The bottom of his Henly has risen a bit, and Zayn tries not to stare at the curl of ink around his hip. Styles really is exceptionally fit and he doesn’t even have gray hair like Zayn does. Styles is what -- thirty-eight? Thirty-nine? Zayn realizes he actually has no clue, but Styles should at least have some gray hair. Zayn is very upset about it. “I know what it’s like to be in an empty flat when your baby’s away. Come round and I’ll fix you dinner?”

Zayn fights against the urge to drag Styles in close and press their bodies together. Zayn still knows it would probably be in bad form to shag the Co-Chair of the PTA and his daughter’s best friend’s dad, especially if things go tits up like they probably will. But Zayn does know what it’s like to be alone in the flat when Summer’s gone. He remembers nights spent pacing until he received her “Just landed!” text. He remembers counting down the hours and minutes until he could see her face over Skype. What Zayn can’t remember is the last time he pulled someone worthwhile. He could, and has, done a lot worse than Styles, that’s for sure. Styles is kind of a twat, but he’s fit and a good cook and he’s strange and makes Zayn laugh. Perhaps most importantly, he makes _Summer_ laugh. Summer’s easy-going, but there aren’t a lot of people who can manage that.

Maybe Zayn should just go for it, how he would’ve when he was in his twenties. Maybe Summer is right. Maybe he needs to stop being so bloody cautious all the time.

“Alright,” Zayn demures, lifting his eyes to match Styles’. He feels pinned underneath them. God, Styles is just so gorgeous. He’s frustrating and full of himself, but he’s also clever and confident and he’s got his shit together. It’s sexy. Zayn can’t believe how much he wants to ruin him. “I -- yeah. I’d like that.”

“You can bring Summer here in the morning and I’ll call us a car to London Heathrow,” Styles says under his breath. “Then we’ll come back to mine and I’ll cook and we’ll watch Netflix and I’ll fuck your brains out.”

Zayn gives himself a moment to be surprised. Zayn’s certainly no blushing virgin, but he still feels his face heating up. Styles just smiles winsomely, the bastard. Zayn laughs and shoves at his shoulder before grabbing him around the neck. Styles’ eyes widen and his grin broadens, a dimple popping into his cheek, and Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything quite so charming. Zayn thinks, “Fuck it,” and pulls Styles down for a snog. He tastes like red wine and gravy. Styles seems taken aback for a moment, stiff and awkward, but then he just _melts_ , is fucking silly putty in Zayn’s hands.

“ _Oh_ ,” Zayn thinks when Styles curls his tongue, and he draws Styles in that much closer.

“We’re literally still right here,” Summer says.

“At least your dad made a move,” Jeremy points out. “My dad probably would’ve just gone back inside and died of sexual frustration.”

Styles pulls back and glares at his son. It’s nice to see the expression directed at someone else for a change, especially when his lips are so pink and shiny. Zayn wants to figure out just how plush they can get and is pleased that he will only have to wait until Saturday to find out. “Stop being such a shit. Tell Summer goodnight and go finish your bloody maths.”

Jeremy flushes and gives Summer another quick hug, but he still manages to smirk at Zayn as he heads back into the flat. God, both of these Styles boys are awful.

“Night, Zayn,” Styles says, gripping the edge of the door.

“Night, Haz,” Zayn replies. “I’ll text you.” He gives Styles one last squeeze around the middle and then walks over to his daughter to call the lift. Styles waits until they’re heading downstairs to shut his door.

 

For once, Zayn’s actually looking forward to the few days Summer will be away, if only because he’ll get to spend some one-on-one time with Styles. He feels a little ridiculous about this fact and would never admit it out loud. But Summer is equally excited, packing her carry-on a few days in advance and babbling on endlessly about her team’s chances in the tournament. Summer’s fairly confident that both the boys and girls squads will lose, but she also says that scouts have ventured out to the tourney in the past and that she and Jeremy are undoubtedly the best players at their school. Most of this flies right over Zayn’s head, but if Summer’s happy, he’s happy.

As promised, Zayn and Summer wake up ridiculously early on the day of her flight and head over to Styles’ loft. It’s in a tip, clothes and toiletries everywhere, because Jeremy’s packing strategy appears to be “upend the flat, pack, and put your clothes away when you come back.” Summer heads to Jeremy’s room to help him jam another pair of Nikes into his carry-on, while Zayn makes his way into the kitchen and leans against Styles’ counters.

“Are you modeling?” Styles asks cheekily as he darts around grabbing snacks for Summer and Jeremy. “Trying to steal your ex’s title as the family supermodel?”

“Dunno,” Zayn asks. “Would you cast me for your ad campaign?”

Styles lifts a shoulder and grabs two apples from a bowl of fruit next to the refrigerator. He can fit both of them in one hand and Zayn is more than a little impressed. He wants to know what else Styles can do with his hands. “Could do, but you’ve got more of a porn star smolder, if I’m completely honest.”

Zayn’s jaw drops in mild outrage. Styles giggles and flits out of the kitchen, calling for both Jeremy and Summer to get a move on.

By the time they all head downstairs, there’s an SUV waiting to take them to London Heathrow, Zayn’s least favorite airport in the entire universe. Jeremy and Summer sit next to each other in the back, doing a very poor job of whispering about all of the German beer they plan on consuming during their trip. Styles rubs his temples and does his best not to look anxious. Zayn catches his hand and threads their fingers together, locking eyes with Styles and trying not to turn scarlet under his piercing gaze.

The airport is buzzing just like it always is. They load out of the car and Zayn helps Summer grab her backpack and roller luggage. She smiles at Zayn when she’s got everything sorted. God, Zayn remembers when she was born, this little pink thing with a head full of fine blonde hair, and now she’s off to play in Germany, partake in some underage drinking, and hopefully impress some recruiters. Zayn can’t believe how proud he is.

“Love you, birdie,” Zayn says, pulling Summer in for a hug and trying to ignore that she’s proper taller than him now. “Have a safe trip. Give me a ring when you’ve landed, yeah?

“‘Course,” Summer replies. “Love you, too. Don’t miss me too much.”

“Not possible,” Zayn jokes and Summer slowly pulls away, wiping at her eyes with the edge of her jumper.

Zayn pokes Summer’s cheek and then turns to Styles and Jeremy. Styles appears to be nearing the end of his list of things Jeremy absolutely shouldn’t do during the tourney’s downtime. “ -- sometimes laced with other things. And please, please, _please_ do not go home with any strange women, Jezza. I’m serious. Sometimes you leave and they’ve already taken all of the money from your wallet.”

“God, I already told you I wouldn’t,” Jeremy says. “I’m practically a married man. I’m all about Meiying Qiao!”

“What? Just because she followed you on Instagram doesn’t mean you’re practically married.”

“Meiying only follows five people from our school,” Summer interjects. “Her three best friends, Jessica Payne, and Jeremy. So yeah, they are practically married.”

“Told you!” Jeremy gloats, dancing around his father and cackling.

Styles rolls his eyes and grabs Jeremy around the neck, pulling him into a hug. It’s almost painfully sweet. When they part, Styles ruffles Jeremy’s hair and ignores his son’s indignant squawk.

“Please be safe,” Styles insists. “I don’t want any strange calls from your Coach or the German police.”

“What? You mean like all of the ones Nana got about you?”

“Yes,” Styles says, face softening. “Exactly.”

Jeremy bites his lip and nods, gripping the handle of his roller. But then he catches Summer’s eye and the two of them light up like the two little kids they still really are.

Zayn and Styles watch Jeremy and Summer make their way into the airport. Neither points out that the other parent has started crying.

 

They take the car back to Styles’ flat. Zayn takes a kip on the couch, suddenly exhausted, while Styles flits around cooking. When Zayn wakes up, his whole world feels like it’s tilted a bit. The sun is setting, the flat smells like cheese and tomato sauce, his phone is flashing with a series of “Just landed!” and “Checked into our hotel!” texts, and Harry’s got his hand on Zayn’s shoulder, tousling him gently. Harry’s hair is falling all about his face and he reminds Zayn of pictures of cherubs from Renaissance paintings. He really has no reason to be so fucking pretty.

“Dinner’s ready,” Harry says.

They eat and chat about everything and nothing at all. They gossip about other parents and complain about the PM. Harry’s cooked lasagna and whipped up another one of his ridiculously healthy side-salads and it’s delicious and filling. They’ll have plenty of leftovers that Zayn kind of wants to eat cold in the morning. They open a bottle of red wine, something full bodied and spicy, and polish it off without much fanfare. Then Harry grabs a bottle of prosecco and insists upon pouring it down Zayn’s throat. Zayn gleefully returns the favor, intentionally spilling a little wine on Harry’s neck so he can lick it off. In case Zayn was still harboring any doubts, the look Harry gives Zayn when he’s done lets him know _exactly_ what they’re doing tonight.

 

A few minutes later, Zayn finds himself in Harry’s bedroom, a bottle of champagne in hand. Zayn takes a swig as he surveys it for the first time. The room’s nice, with wood paneling and a huge mattress in the center of the room. He’s got art prints up on the wall, flowers that look like vaginas and some Hayden Kays prints of sheep with witty commentary in big, blocky font. There’s no telly because Harry’s evil, but he’s got a tableside full of books and moleskins and a guitar propped up against the window overlooking Charing Cross. Zayn wonders if there’s anything about him in those notebooks, if Harry’s ever sat on the window ledge with his guitar in hand and thought about Zayn.

Overall, Zayn doesn’t quite know what he was expecting, but Harry’s space is surprisingly sparse. Deliberately so, maybe, as though Harry put a lot of thought into only collecting the bare essentials. Zayn can appreciate that.

Harry ambles into the room, his footsteps only a little unsteady from all of the wine. He’d insisted that he pack up all of the food and load the dishwasher before they went to bed. Zayn’s ridiculously turned on by Harry’s cleanliness.

“I really like your loft,” Zayn says. “I dunno if I ever actually said that.”

“Even if you’ve never said it out loud, you’ve said it in a million other ways,” Harry replies haughtily, toeing out of his boots. All of the lights and noise from the street below is filtering into the flat, and Harry’s broad, muscled back is momentarily bathed underneath a criss-cross of strobelights from the club next door. He’s so bloody gorgeous. Zayn doesn’t know why he tried to pretend as though he didn’t find Harry attractive, with his long, wavy, brown hair and slow, filthy smile. Harry reminds Zayn of murals in his favorite galleries, a swirl of colors and temperaments, bright spots and hidden complexities. Harry’s perplexing, a labyrinth, even, and Zayn’s always liked searching for hidden meanings and truths. It’s what he gets paid by UCL to do.

Zayn pulls off all his clothes, slow and unhurried. He knows what he looks like, knows that he’s lean and tattooed and has a nice cock. And he knows now that Harry’s been waiting not so patiently for this. Harry watches him and worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “It’s really unfair that you’re so fit when you eat so much garbage,” Harry says.

“Some of us are just blessed with amazing genetics,” Zayn answers, because he’s a wee bit of an aresehole.

But Harry, to his credit, only laughs and pushes Zayn onto the mattress. He undresses just as slowly, pulling his shirt off to reveal ink all over his arms and chest, and another piece high on his thigh. Zayn already knew Harry was tatted, but it’s one thing to recognize that vaguely and something else entirely to run greedy hands over the milky skin, to drag fingernails through the designs and watch Harry gasp.

“I think I first wanted you when I read your application to the PTA,” Harry confesses, breath hitching as he crawls up the bed and sits over Zayn’s lap in only his pants. He’s heavy, but Zayn likes how solid Harry is, how he somehow manages to be lanky and firm, corded muscle at the same time. “Your CV listed you as a law professor, so I Googled you and found you on the faculty page. And you were stupid fit. I was so excited to meet you.”

“You internet stalked me?” Zayn asks, quietly delighted. “That’s weird. And what? Me being a law professor got you hard?”

Harry shrugs, but the grin on his face is pure filth. “Maybe. I’ve never really gone to uni -- you know that. Well, I took a few classes here and there. But that doesn’t mean I never thought about fucking the professor.”

“Well, that’s cheeky,” Zayn answers, grabbing Harry’s bum with both hands and punctuating his words with a squeeze. Harry makes a low, strangled noise in his throat and Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything quite so wonderful. “It’s never too late to go back to school, you know.”

Harry laughs, but it morphs into something breathy when Zayn runs a finger underneath the fabric of his pants. “Might have to go in for law then once you’re done with your sabbatical.”

“Could do,” Zayn agrees. “I like to think I’m a good teacher.”

“I’m sure you’re the best,” Harry says, leaning in so close that his lips are brushing against Zayn’s. He smells like meat sauce and is warm and squirmy in Zayn’s lap, his cock plump where it’s tenting the fabric. He looks fucking massive and Zayn’s mouth waters at the prospect of tasting him. “But I’m a horrible student. Very flighty and easily distracted. I hope you’ll let me try for extra credit.”

Zayn gulps, squeezing Harry’s bum again. Harry is ridiculously responsive, his pupils dilated and his cheeks flushed. Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever been with anyone like him before. It makes Zayn feel heady and desperate, like they’re two teenagers getting off while their parents are away for the holidays. “What do you want?”

“You,” Harry says, his eyelashes long and beguiling.

“No,” Zayn laughs, high and fluttery. He thinks he might be blushing again. Damn it. “Like, how do you want it? Do you want me to suck you off?” Harry’s breath goes ragged and he nods. Like this, he looks like the young boy in the picture by the kitchen, quietly determined, and an explosion of curls and happiness. “All right, yeah. I’ll suck you off and then I’ll fuck you.”

Harry moans, burying his head in the crook of Zayn’s neck. “ _Oh_. Oh yes, Zayn.”

“Here, budge up,” Zayn says, pushing at Harry’s hip. Harry slides off Zayn’s lap and Zayn lies back against the mattress, tossing Harry’s pillows to the side. Harry takes off his pants and immediately goes for his cock, wrapping his fingers around the pink head and squeezing. Harry’s one long mess of skin and tattoos and just as Zayn’s suspected he’s got a really big dick, too, long and thick and uncut, the type that Zayn would rather like to sit on.

“C’mere then,” Zayn says, sounding far more in control than he feels. “Fuck my mouth.”

Harry crawls over Zayn’s body and settles himself over his chest. Harry seems hesitant to move again until Zayn brings his hands back to press against his arse, and then Harry closes his eyes and runs his hands over his own chest, his nipples pebbling under his ghosting touch. When Harry opens his eyes again, it’s to grip his cock and guide it down Zayn’s throat.

“Fuck,” Harry mumbles. Zayn groans around the thick weight of him and gives Harry’s bum a tap. Harry bucks forward, the head of his cock pressing down Zayn’s throat, and Zayn swallows around the tip, his eyes rolling backward when he tastes a spurt of precome.

Harry’s strokes are slow and deliberate, which Zayn can appreciate. His hair falls and sticks to his cheeks as he fucks Zayn’s mouth, and he gets this sweet, focused look on his face, like he’s doing everything in his power not to barrel down Zayn’s throat.

Either way, it doesn’t take long for Harry’s strokes to become shorter, punchier. Zayn presses at Harry’s hip and he pulls out, his chest red and his eyes so dark he looks like a very sexy demon.

“I think I changed my mind,” Zayn says, voice hoarse. Harry touches Zayn’s neck tentatively, fingers soft and soothing as they run down the column of skin. “Need your cock in me. Want to fuck me instead?”

Harry jerks his fingers away and wraps them around the base of his cock instead, screwing his face up so hard it’d be fucking hilarious if Zayn wasn’t still stupidly horny.

“Did you almost come?” Zayn asks, squinting at Harry.

“Shut up,” Harry hisses. He’s gone red all over and he’s breathing a little ragged, just like someone does when they almost come.

“You did.” Zayn can’t remember the last time he felt so delighted. “Oh my God, I asked if you wanted to fuck me and you almost nutted right then and there.”

“Shut up,” Harry whines. “It’s been a long time. Do you want me to fuck you or not?”

“Bossy,” Zayn mumbles, but he tosses around so he’s on his stomach and grabs one of Harry’s pillows to prop underneath his hips.

In the meantime, Harry reaches over into his bedside table, grabs an entire box of Magnums, and dumps them out on the bed. He also finds a packet of lube and places it delicately on top of his massive condom pile.

“I actually think you could’ve just grabbed one condom,” Zayn says.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Harry mumbles, tearing the foil of one of his Magnums with his teeth and rolling the latex over his cock.

“It’s just a little weird,” Zayn continues, licking his fingers and pressing his ring finger into his body. He hasn’t fingered himself in a while, but he feels easy for it, especially with the heat of Harry’s eyes goading him on. “Like, do you really think we need all forty condoms tonight?”

Zayn can’t see Harry’s face, but he knows he’s leering. “If things go my way, we will.”

“Doubtful, old man, but I admire your drive and commitment,” Zayn says. He crooks his finger up and his foot jerks with the sudden jolt of pleasure, his toes brushing up against Harry’s meaty thigh. “You going to keep talking, then, or are you going to give me a hand?”

Harry, resourceful problem solver that he is, doesn’t so much give Zayn a hand as he grabs Zayn’s thighs, presses them even wider apart, and licks the length of Zayn’s perineum, stopping to nip at the sensitive skin of Zayn’s rim. Zayn pulls his finger out and lets Harry get to it, making stupid, garbled noises as Harry fucks his tongue into Zayn’s hole. He’s good at it, unapologetically into it, getting Zayn wet with spit and working his own broad, long fingers into Zayn’s hole. Zayn can feel his cock leaking out against Harry’s pillow and has to resist the urge to push back against Harry’s face. He wants to ride Harry’s tongue, wants to use him to get off. Maybe he could suggest it first thing in the morning.

“I’m gonna come on your bedspread if you don’t fuck me soon,” Zayn somehow manages to slur after Harry’s already three fingers deep inside of him.

Harry hums, licking one more full strip across Zayn’s hole and twisting his fingers out. “You’re gonna come all over my bedspread either way,” Harry remarks. “That’s why I bought new sheets.”

“You’re so clever,” Zayn compliments. “Prepared for all scenarios.”

Harry murmurs his agreement, reaching across the bed to grab his packet of lube. Zayn twists around so he’s on his back, determined to watch this bit. He narrows his eyes as Harry coats his cock in slick, pumping himself. Even through the latex, Zayn can tell that Harry is impossibly hard, his thick cock pinkish purple. Zayn can’t wait to have Harry in him, feels feverish and desperate for it. Zayn loves taking cock, loves feeling stretched out and full, and he thinks Harry’s going to be on the higher-achieving end of people Zayn’s been with. Zayn takes his own dick in hand at the prospect, gasping from oversensitivity.

“You sure you don’t want to be on hands and knees or on top?” Harry asks.

Zayn shakes his head. “Wanna see you.”

Harry maneuvers Zayn so his hips are back on the pillow, and then he lifts Zayn’s legs so they’re over Harry’s own hips. And then Harry just teases, slapping his cock against Zayn’s hole and biting his bottom lip as he focuses in on the image.

“Are you just gonna gawk at it, or -- ?”

Harry narrows his eyes but thankfully takes the hint, pressing the tip of his cock against Zayn’s hole.

It doesn’t hurt, really, but it does feel strange and uncomfortable. Zayn is suddenly and very viscerally reminded that he hasn’t done this in a while. He hadn’t trusted any of the one night stands he picked up while Summer was away for hols and he’d only had one or two relationships that lasted any significant amount of time after his and Gigi’s relationship fell apart. Zayn wonders what it means -- if anything -- that he is so willing to share this with Harry first thing.

“Tight,” Harry garbles. He’s only got the tip in, but Harry already feels massive, like he’s splitting Zayn in half. His hair is all in his face again, and his cheeks and chest have once more gone rosy with his arousal. Zayn can’t help himself -- he brings Harry in for a bruising kiss that takes both their breath away. It loosens Zayn enough that Harry is able to slide all the way in, his pelvis flush to Zayn’s ass. Harry hiccups a groan and slurs his curses against Zayn’s lips.

Zayn’s sure he’s going to feel all of this in the morning, in his back and his thighs and his arse. He’s not as flexible as he used to be, and he’d never been particularly pliable to begin with. But in the moment it all just feels right, Harry above him, his movements slow and stuttered to start, panting hot and open against Zayn’s mouth. His hands engulf Zayn’s waist and he scratches against his thighs, leaving raised skin in his wake. Zayn can hardly think, can hardly breathe. All he can focus on is Harry’s cock in him, the feel of his body and the smell of their sex, Harry rocking in so deep Zayn can see stars.

It doesn’t really last long, close as they both were to begin with, but Zayn finds that he doesn’t mind when Harry seizes and shudders in Zayn’s arms, coming in him so deep that Zayn almost confesses something sloppy, premature, and inconvenient. Harry doesn’t even waste time being sleepy post-orgasm, just pulls out and ties off the condom before tossing it somewhere on the bed. He slides down the length of Zayn’s body and sticks his fingers in Zayn’s arse, attaching his mouth to Zayn’s cock. He swallows down Zayn’s length and sucks relentlessly. Zayn almost wants to call him a show-off, but he also can’t really remember how to string words into coherent sentences. Harry’s rubbing up against his prostate and Zayn’s fucking down his throat, and Harry’s eyes are so green. Zayn is completely overwhelmed by sensations and the repeating thought of _Harry, Harry, Harry_.

Zayn’s coming before he can even bother to figure out what it all means.

 

Harry returns to his bedroom with an old-fashioned hot water bottle. They’d already found the used condom and properly disposed of it before tearing off the sheets, replacing them with the new set Harry had picked up earlier in the week. They’d showered separately, Harry politely taking one of the guest bathrooms while Zayn used the master bath, but Zayn finishes washing up before Harry and settles in bed to read something he’d stolen off the bookcase. Once Harry makes his way back to his room, he meanders to his side of the bed and lays down on his stomach, positioning the water bottle at the bottom of his spine. He hums contentedly for a few moments, opening an eye and grinning at Zayn.

“All that vigorous sex aggravate your back?” Zayn teases.

“Shut up,” Harry retorts, but he’s still grinning good-naturedly.

“Next time you can be on your back,” Zayn continues. “Wouldn’t want you to break a hip.”

“Excuse you,” Harry says politely. “I’m thirty-nine, not dead.”

Zayn blinks down at Harry. “Summer says that, you know. That she’s fifteen not dead. She says it all the time.”

Harry laughs and squirms across the mattress so that his head is on Zayn’s shoulder. “I like Summer,” he declares, his breath fanning out against Zayn’s collarbone. It should be kind of weird that Harry’s talking about Zayn’s daughter while completely starkers, but it’s not. “She’s a lot like you. Except not at all, because she’s very sweet, outgoing, and considerate.”

“I am very sweet,” Zayn says, even though the verity of the statement is doubtful at best. “But thank you. She likes you a lot. I’d say she’s perfectly charmed by you and Jeremy, actually. As am I.”

Harry makes a low, contented noise. Zayn brings his hand to card through his damp hair, combing softly through the tangles.

“So what’s your tragic backstory?” Harry asks, his mouth quirking in something that he probably hopes would pass for a smile. “Why is a good-looking, successful guy like you single and in my bed? Or, alternatively, what led you to become a villain and pursue the dark side?”

Zayn laughs, scratching his fingers over his beard. “Um, I’m not a Sith Lord. Also, my backstory isn’t very tragic.”

Harry lifts a shoulder. “Every end of a marriage is a bit tragic.”

Zayn wavers. Harry might have him there. “It wasn’t like it was a huge end of the world type of divorce,” Zayn says. “It was just -- _God_.” Zayn scrubs his hand over his face and feels at a loss over how to even begin. Harry watches him quietly and without judgement, waiting for Zayn to find himself.

“I just -- I remember when I first met her,” Zayn says. “I’d somehow ended up at a fancy fundraiser. One of my mates was loaded and cajoled me into going. He said that this famous supermodel was supposed to show up. I didn’t think much of it, so I made my way to the bar. And there’s this woman sitting there. Tall, fit, blonde. Californian. We get to talking and she’s hilarious -- funny and charming. I tell her that this famous supermodel is supposed to be coming through. And what do you know -- this funny, fit woman _is_ the supermodel.

“She was dating someone at the time and I didn’t get her number, but I kept running into her. I didn’t go out often, but honestly, Harry, every time I did, I saw Gigi. I thought it was fate. And then one day she told me she’d broken up with her boyfriend. From then on out, we fucked around whenever she was in town. And then six months into it, she told me she was pregnant. I assumed she’d wanted to get an abortion -- she was on the top of her career and we weren’t even properly together. I didn’t have anything to offer her. But she wanted to keep the baby and give us a go.

“We waited until after Summer was born to get married,” Zayn continues. “But I didn’t marry her just to save face or to help her image. I married her because I loved her and I legitimately wanted to make it work. But our relationship never felt even, I guess. She was still traveling loads for work and I was busy all the time, too. She thought I didn’t take our marriage seriously because I could go days without talking to her, and I told her that I fundamentally didn’t think a long-distance thing could ever work. I really pressured her to stay put -- to stay in London. I was very selfish. We ground it out for as long as we could, but by the end of it we weren’t even friends anymore and I wanted that companionship back more than anything. I knew the only way I could salvage our friendship was to end our romantic relationship. And ultimately Gigi agreed.”

Harry taps his fingers on Zayn’s knuckles before lacing their fingers together. “It is a little bit sad,” Harry says. “But I’m sure Summer’s pleased you and her mum are still so close and friendly.”

“Summer loves it. So many of her friends have gone through these bitter, nasty divorces. Gigi and I never wanted that. Gigi -- it’s not in her nature to be petty. Sometimes she can be a little mean, but she can’t sustain a bad mood for very long. I didn’t want to be cruel to her. It’s so draining and I didn’t want Summer to ever think her father’s an arse, even though I can be.” Zayn squeezes Harry’s palm where their fingers are pressed together. His voice is surprisingly low when he asks Harry, “And you? What’s your tragic backstory?”

Zayn’s fairly used to Harry’s frowns, his scowls across the PTA meeting room when people are being difficult, pouts when he’s not getting his way. But the grimace that passes over Harry’s face now is something entirely different. Zayn doesn’t know how to react to it, but he knows he doesn’t like it.

“Which one?” Harry asks, scoffing. “I know Jeremy told you about the circumstances that led to us moving to London, but I was married once, too. It was very brief -- or at least the bit where we were living together like a proper married couple was very brief. My ex was essentially a glorified sugar daddy. The context here is that my parents divorced when I was a kid and I think a part of me assumed it might be better to go into a marriage without any pretenses. I thought that might actually be the key to a long, fulfilling marriage. I knew I didn’t love him, but I loved what he was able to offer me. Connections, financial security, cars, studio time -- things like that. I was very naive, I suppose. I thought that was enough.

“We got married after a few months of dating and I wanted a baby, so we started the adoption process. My ex knew some people so the whole thing moved fast. But by the time I got the baby -- by the time I got Jeremy -- the marriage was basically over. It ended up as a single parent adoption, essentially. I don’t think Jeremy even _remembers_ my ex-husband, although the divorce settlement is going to pay for his uni. Maybe I’ll have Jeremy write the bastard a thank you card.”

“So you didn’t intend to be a single dad?” Zayn asks. “Because I just assumed when you first told me -- ”

“No, I thought I was going to have help,” Harry says. “But I remember one night I was sitting alone in the nursery. We were living in Chelsea at the time but I was all by myself because Ben -- his name was Ben -- was working late again. I assembled the cradle myself. I picked out all of the clothes myself and put them away in a dresser I’d ordered. I painted the room by myself, this soft, warm yellow and I’d just gotten a pram, too. And I kept thinking about _my_ baby. Not our baby. _My_ baby, and how he was going to be named Jeremy Styles. I think that’s when I knew I’d be raising a kid by myself. And it didn’t scare me. It just felt right for whatever reason. Like this was what I was destined to do.”

Zayn twirls his fingers around a strand of Harry’s hair and falls into his thoughts. Being a single father had never factored into his goals for himself, but having a child at 24 hadn’t been in those plans, either. Life’s full of surprises like that, highs and lows, the little unexpectancies that eventually come to define you.

Zayn can still remember the crushing grief he felt when his marriage with Gigi ended. That’s the thing no one ever tells you -- how the end feels like a death. You lose so much more than your spouse. Zayn lost holidays together with their joined families and the illusion of financial security. He lost the comfort of his in-laws and friendships he thought he’d have forever. He lost “Zayn the husband” and had to figure out who he was after the smoke cleared.

He went to therapy. He wrote a goodbye letter to his marriage and sat down with some of his lawyer mates to hammer out a custody agreement. He looked for a flat of his own and decided he didn’t want to work for the UN anymore. He wrote hello letters to his life as a single man and had a few one-night stands. He took Summer to the park and to his classes as a professor. He watched his daughter smile with a ball in her hand and the sun in her hair and tried to learn how to smile again, too.

Honestly, being a father is probably what saved him. It gave Zayn focus and purpose. It gave him an identity and helped him be more courageous. He never wanted it for himself -- never wanted to have to do so much of this on his own -- but he’s proud of the job he’s done so far. Summer, like the warm weather and clear skies she’s named for, is a blessing.

Zayn hasn’t given much thought to other parts of his life beyond work and his daughter, but he does think Summer’s right. That she’s been right all along. Maybe it is time to give romance a go. And Harry understands so much -- perhaps more than anyone else in Zayn’s life. Harry knows what it’s like to do everything on your own, to put someone else’s life first and learn to trust your decisions. Zayn is so good at explaining the intricacies of EU law to his students, but not all of his justifications come quite so easily. That was the big failing in his marriage with Gigi -- they could both be absolutely horrible at communication. But Harry won’t need big speeches. He already _knows_ , on a kneejerk, gut level.

“You feel right,” Zayn finally says. And he can’t help but smile helplessly when Harry turns his full focus on Zayn, face open and hopeful.

“Really?” Harry asks.

“Yeah,” Zayn responds. “Really.”

Harry leans in to kiss Zayn, but Zayn presses a finger to Harry’s pursed lips and stops him. “It was great in the moment, but you were literally just eating my ass half an hour ago, Haz.”

Harry snorts and buries his face in Zayn’s shoulder.

 

Zayn forgot to brush his own teeth after taking his shower, but Harry tells him there’s a toothbrush he can use in one of the drawers in the master bath. Zayn meanders into the room and bangs through the cupboards looking for the mythical spare toothbrush. What he finds instead, shoved in the back of one of the cabinets, sends a hot spark of outrage through his sore joints.

“What’s this?” Zayn asks, making his way back into the bedroom. Harry’s still starkers, sprawled out across the mattress, looking smug and well fucked, while scrolling through his phone. He’s probably reading emails from the PTA. The sight of his bum is appealing and very distracting, but Zayn pushes past that and focuses on the task at hand.

“What’s what?” Harry asks, lifting his head up from his pillow.

“This!” Zayn screeches, walking to Harry’s side of the bed and brandishing the box of Clairol Nice 'n Easy Root Touch-Up in Harry’s face.

Harry looks entirely nonplussed. “That’s root touch-up. Hair dye.”

“I know what it is!”

“Then why are you shouting at me?”

Zayn growls and points at Harry. “Because you’re a liar, Harry Styles! I was wondering how it was you didn’t have any bloody gray hair!”

Harry barks out a laugh, squeezing his eyes shut. He looks so young when he’s pleased, like a bloody teenager. “You actually thought I was a single dad raising a fucking fifteen-year-old jock and managed not to have any gray hairs?”

When Harry puts it like that, Zayn does feel quite stupid. Zayn blinks and puts the hair dye on Harry’s bedside table. “Well.”

“I have gray hairs,” Harry says, suddenly serious. “And I have hair plugs because I started going bald when I was like nineteen and my ex-husband offered to get it sorted. I work out loads, otherwise I get all of this stubborn weight around my hips. I’m not a model like your ex -- far from it. Is that okay?”

Zayn meets Harry’s eyes and suddenly feels like he’s out at sea, like there are waves crashing all around him, saltwater in his lungs and not a boat in sight. He should be scared but instead Zayn thinks he might be a little exhilarated.

His life has been so stable. Steady and complacent. He works and looks after his daughter. Sometimes he talks to one of his four friends. He procrastinates on finishing his book. There hasn’t been much risk, no adventure, not even with the book project. Everything is planned out and fairly straightforward.

But there’s nothing straightforward about Harry Styles. He’s the bane of Zayn’s existence. He’s the father of his daughter’s best friend. He drives Zayn mad. He’s funny, possessing a very sly sort of humor that demonstrates how fucking smart he is. He’s strange, the type of weird that wouldn’t be called “eccentric” if he wasn’t rich. And, like Gigi, he wants something from Zayn. He wants Zayn to be better, wants him to try harder and to be more open. Nicer.

Zayn’s not sure he can accomplish those things. Zayn’s been single for years and sometimes he feels like a stubborn old man even though he’s only forty. He’s not sure he can give Harry what he wants or what he deserves. But the thing that’s so fucking exhilarating is that Zayn actually wants to try.

“I know you’re not a supermodel, Harry,” Zayn says. “If I wanted that, don’t you think I would’ve just stayed with what I had?”

“What _do_ you want?”

Zayn swings himself onto the mattress, bracing himself over Harry. He’s very warm and still very naked. He looks up at Zayn like he’s something special, as though there’s so much more here than a hookup while their kids are away. His gaze is so intense that Zayn almost wants to turn away and change the subject, but he’s not in his twenties anymore. Zayn’s tired of running away from things that make him feel good.

And his refractory period certainly isn’t what it used to be, either, but sex doesn’t always have to be a sprint. Zayn’s willing to take his time with Harry -- using as many of those Magnums as they need to -- in order to cross the marathon finish line.

“You,” Zayn says. “I want you.” And this time, gross factor aside, he does lean in for a kiss.

 

Summer calls Zayn the next day at seven in the bloody morning. Harry’s already up, humming and being a jolly morning person, but Zayn feels horrible. He has a wine hangover and everything feels sore -- his arse, his thighs, his jaw. Harry’s brought him some water and paracetamol but he still feels bloody awful and probably looks it when he answers Summer’s Facetime.

“Where are you?” Summer asks, squinting at her screen. “Are you -- are you in Harry’s _bedroom_?”

“No,” Zayn lies. “Why would I be at Styles’ flat?”

“You are!” Summer squeals. She sounds way too gleeful and it’s so very early. “You are at Harry’s! I recognize the art behind you!”

Zayn turns around and frowns at the weird lotus flower vagina thing hanging on the wall behind him. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “When have you been in Styles’ bedroom before?”

“Jeremy and I snuck in to try on all of his hats a few weeks ago,” Summer says. “Did you know he owns a $300 straw Gucci fedora?”

“No, but that doesn’t surprise me, either.”

“I can’t believe you’re in his bedroom!” Summer continues. “Did you spend the night?”

“I am absolutely _not_ having this conversation with you.”

“Which means you did!” Summer shrieks. Her voice is getting progressively shriller. Zayn hasn’t heard her this excited since Beyoncé performed “Drunk In Love” at the O2. “Oh, God! I can’t wait to find Jeremy and tell him.”

“You will do no such thing,” Zayn says. “I don’t want you gossiping about my -- ” Zayn waves his hand around. “Love life. Or whatever.”

“Love life,” Summer repeats. “So like -- you love him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you did spend the night,” Summer points out, eyes glittering with something that makes Zayn feel anxious. Zayn wants to tell her off for speculating and being a horrific gossip, but he hasn’t seen her smile like this in a long time. What’s a few minutes of embarrassment in exchange for the grin on her face? “So it’s only a matter of time before you fall in love with him, really, because you’re secretly a hopeless romantic. Where is he? I want to say good morning.”

“Kitchen,” Zayn says. “I think he’s making a fry-up. Meaning I hope he’s making a fry-up. I’m tremendously hungover.”

Summer puts her chin on her fist. “Oh, I’m jealous. His breakfasts are quite good and all we’re getting is cereal. Coach says we’ll have a nice dinner if we win the tourney, though.”

“Then I hope you win,” Zayn says. “Although Coach should feed you something good regardless. Tell Jeremy I say hi when you see him.”

“Will do,” Summer answers. “I won’t keep you from your delicious breakfast -- or your delicious man. Laters, Baba.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Love you, birdie,” he replies and ends the call.

 

Zayn stays over at Harry’s for the entire weekend. He doesn’t really mean to, but he can’t see any reason to return home, either. Instead they watch Netflix, as promised, and he eats everything Harry cooks for him -- a fry-up in the morning, leftover lasagna at lunch, a spinach and strawberry salad for dinner -- and drinks more wine. Harry has a record player in the back of his closet and he brings it out and sets it in the living room, insisting that Zayn get up and dance with him. They listen to The Dark Side of the Moon and Thriller and some stupid indie band from Manchester that Zayn probably wouldn’t listen to voluntarily if Harry weren’t so wide-eyed and beseeching about the whole thing. They dance and eat biscuits and kiss and ignore Harry’s neighbor when he starts pounding the wall, yelling at them to knock it off.

They tumble into bed around 10pm, their hands far more urgent this go around. Zayn’s been wearing a pair of Harry’s joggers around the flat and not much else, and Harry admits the sight of Zayn in his clothes turns him on. Zayn asks if the sight of him riding Harry would turn him on, too, and Harry stares at him slack-jawed and impressed.

Zayn lets Harry finger him stupid and then he slides on top, letting Harry thrust into him before placing bracing hands on Harry’s chest, urging him to go slower. Zayn can feel the burn in his thighs, in his calves, in his lower back, but he likes that he’s going to feel worn out again tomorrow, and he likes how Harry looks at him like he’s something otherworldly, like Harry’s lucky to have him.

They don’t come at the exact same time, but it’s something close, like one of them is the riptide and the other is the sand. Zayn closes his eyes and shudders, Harry’s hands fanning his back like they’re in a painting.

 

Summer and Jeremy return from their tourney, each the proud owners of a fourth-place medal. Summer proclaims that both the boys and girls squads are equally and dismally mediocre. Zayn ruffles her hair and does not disagree.

Weeks pass. Summer and Jeremy bounce between Zayn and Harry’s flat, and Zayn and Harry do their best to pretend as though they don’t fuck around when the kids are in school. Zayn and Harry also do their best to pretend as though they still annoy each other endlessly whenever they have PTA meetings, but Liam’s already given Zayn a few knowing looks and Niall once wolf whistled when Zayn and Harry walked into the room at the same time. Zayn loudly insists that he hates them all.

 

In mid May, Summer and Jeremy both nab coveted invitations to their school’s prom. Summer’s going with Jessica Payne, and Jeremy asks Meiying Qiao, alleged Queen of Instagram, the source of Jeremy’s conflict with Thomas Sampson, and one of the most popular girls in school. Zayn’s seen her around on campus, sitting in the stands during basketball games, and she is very pretty, petite with long brown hair and an easygoing smile. Jeremy is at least a foot taller than her, and apparently it’s a Very Big Deal that Meiying decides to take Jeremy. Firstly because Jeremy is two years younger, and secondly because she’d already turned down six other boys this prom season.

“It’s because I’m a fu-- uh, freaking catch,” Jeremy boasts after school. They’re all at Styles’ loft and Jeremy and Summer are cleaning off the counter for dinner. Jeremy and Summer are giddy from the day’s adventures, Jeremy almost bouncing on his feet as he recounts approaching Meiying during lunch.

“It’s because she wants to get back at Thomas Sampson,” Summer interjects. “She’s trying to make a statement.”

Jeremy shrugs. “That’s fine. I’m okay with being used by beautiful women. It’ll be a great story when we get married and have two children named Wild Styles and Flower Styles.”

“Please don’t say things like that in front of me,” Harry sighs.

“Have you thought of those names before or did you just make them up?” Summer asks, sounding a little impressed.

“I’m sure it’s more than that,” Zayn says, nodding at Summer. “She must like Jeremy, too. Didn’t you say she follows Jeremy on instagram?”

“Thank you, Mr. Malik,” Jeremy says. He bumps Summer’s hip and grins. “You’re just jealous she didn’t ask _you_ out.”

“No,” Summer replies petulantly. Zayn thinks she might be lying. “That has nothing to do with it.”

“Jessica Payne’s fit, too,” Jeremy says. “It’s not like you’re losing out by going with her.”

Summer shrugs. “I didn’t say that. But it would be nice to go with someone I was dating, you know?”

Zayn looks up at Harry only to realize Harry has already been watching him. “This conversation is weird, right?” Zayn asks. “Hearing your kid talking about who’s fit and wanting to date and all that?”

“A little weird, yeah,” Harry agrees. “Want some whiskey?”

Zayn grins, slow and a little dirty, and he resolutely ignores Jeremy and Summer miming vomiting next to him.

 

Crazily enough, Zayn actually enjoys helping the PTA plan the senior prom. Harry puts him in charge of all of the last-minute logistics -- with the caveat that Harry’s DJ friend plays the tunes all night -- and Zayn works with the Student Association to make sure it’s a fun time for everyone in attendance. The theme is _The Great Gatsby_ , which makes Zayn wonder whether anyone has actually read the book since the major themes are mortality, deceit, and a crumbling American society, but he dutifully purchases streamers and balloons, excavates leftover party materials from a closet behind the theater, and books a caterer nonetheless.

Zayn’s college didn’t have prom and as a rule he avoided major get-togethers with his classmates anyway. Zayn’s matured since his teen years, though, so he can embrace prom now -- at least for his daughter’s sake.

Gigi flies out to London before the big event and they take Summer to Selfridges for a dress. Summer resists Gigi almost the whole way, insisting that she doesn’t want to wear red or blue or green or gold or yellow, and then admitting that she would rather wear a suit. Ultimately mother and daughter compromise on an off-white Ellie Saab jumpsuit with a bloody bow right above the bum. Zayn protests the jumpsuit as being inappropriate and also having nothing to do with _The Great Gatsby_ , but he gets overruled. Zayn almost has another heart attack over the price tag but Gigi pulls out her credit card and swipes as though it’s nothing. And Zayn remembers that to Gigi, it _is_ nothing.

Zayn, Summer, and Gigi meet up with Harry and Jeremy a few blocks from the Styles’ flat in Soho for dinner. They go to a tapas bar and Gigi and Harry bond over being pretentious twats, meaning they complain vociferously about how expensive tapas are outside of Spain. The gentrification of tapas, if you will. Then they complain about the taste of the sangria. Finally, they complain about how the churros should be stuffed with nutella. Zayn agrees with them on this last point, but he doesn’t want to give either of them the satisfaction, so he keeps his thoughts to himself.

“That was nice,” Gigi says as they are standing around outside of the restaurant waiting for an Addison Lee. Harry and Jeremy have already headed back home on foot, Jeremy with a quick hug for both Summer and Zayn and an awe-inspired glance Gigi’s way, and Harry with a bone-crushing hug for Summer, a wave for Gigi, and a kiss for Zayn. Summer texts on her phone while she waits and Gigi and Zayn share a quick fag. “Harry’s fun. And Jeremy is adorable. Are you and Harry dating?”

Zayn lifts a shoulder and blows out a column of smoke before handing Gigi the cigarette. “We haven’t really talked about it. I think so?”

“Are you seeing anyone else?”

Zayn shakes his head.

“Is _he_ seeing anyone else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He’s not,” Summer interjects, looking up from her phone. “Jeremy says his dad’s just waiting for you to stop being a knob and bring it up first.”

Zayn’s grateful that it’s dark because he thinks he might be blushing. “Well, then. I suppose you have your answer. Does he get the official Gigi stamp of approval?” Zayn asks.

“Maybe if he takes me to Seville for real tapas,” Gigi says.

“Next family vacation?”

Gigi laughs, her eyes sparkling under the moonlight. “We’ll see.”

“Jelena,” Zayn says, sighing. “ _Seriously_. You know your opinion is important to me.”

“Zain,” Gigi mocks. “Seriously.”

“Lana Summer Malik, your parents are _seriously_ insane,” Summer says to no one in particular. Zayn and Gigi both turn toward her. “Sorry. I was just feeling left out.”

“Well, let’s just dial you back in then, kiddo,” Gigi replies, crossing her arms over her chest and tapping ash onto the sidewalk. “Your opinion’s the one that matters to me anyway.”

Summer puts her phone back in her pocket and tilts her head at Gigi. ‘What do you mean?”

“What do you think of Harry?” Gigi asks.

Summer lifts a shoulder. “He’s great. He cooks for me and he’s helped me with maths once or twice, even though he always insists he’s rubbish at it.”

“How is he with his boy -- Jeremy?”

“Better,” Summer answers. “Jeremy had been really upset with Harry earlier in the year, but Baba talked to Jeremy and said _something_ \-- I dunno what, really. It wasn’t an overnight thing, but since then Jeremy’s at least tried to hear his dad out. They don’t always see eye-to-eye, but they talk about it now instead of freezing each other out. It’s nice. I’m proud of them.”

Zayn’s proud of Summer, hearing her respond to her mother’s grilling. She’s so bloody mature and well-spoken. Zayn can’t believe she’s his daughter.

“And how about your dad?” Gigi asks. “Does Harry treat your Baba well?”

“I think so,” Summer answers. “Harry was immature and kind of stupid earlier in the year when he didn’t want to admit his feelings, but to be fair, they were both being dumb.”

“Rude,” Zayn says. “I’m standing right here.”

“But then Baba and I had a talk and I told him I didn’t want him to miss out on things just because I’m his main priority,” Summer continues, almost like Zayn hadn’t spoken at all. “I dunno what happened after that, but he and Harry have been super sweet. Harry looks at Baba like he’s the moon and stars. I’m just annoyed that I’m too old to be a flower girl now.”

“You’re never too old to be my flower girl,” Zayn interjects, grabbing Summer around the waist and pulling her in close. “You can be sixty and I’d still want you throwing the petals.”

“Baba, you reek of smoke,” Summer laughs, gently pushing Zayn away. She looks flushed and pleased when she turns to her mother again. “Anymore questions, Mom?”

Gigi takes another long pull off the cigarette before handing the remnants to Zayn. It’s almost down to the filter and Zayn thinks he can make out their Addison Lee up the block, so he finishes it off and crushes the rest under his boot.

“I think I’m done with the interrogation,” Gigi responds, her voice low and warm. When Zayn looks at her, there’s something almost wistful in her eyes. “If Summer likes him that’s all there is to it. So I suppose I have to give this Harry the official Gigi stamp of approval. Thanks, kiddo.”

 

Prom is an absolute spectacle.

There are decorations everywhere -- balloons, streamers, a photo booth covered in fucking glitter, confetti, posters of 1920s France for no fucking reason, and even a Leonardo DiCaprio cut-out. It looks like someone had a fever dream after watching half of _The Great Gatsby_ while on an acid trip. Zayn had tried to make it look a little less Party Delights and a little more like something that cost more than £10, but he’d been overruled by the Student Association. If they want a tacky prom, then Zayn has to accept that.

Harry arrives an hour before the doors open. The Head Girl flirts with him while simultaneously asking about the caterer, and another one of the kids nearly falls out of her dress running over to badger Harry with some benign question. Zayn finds it all very amusing until the Head Girl saunters his way, too, and tells him she’s been accepted into UCL’s Law Program. Zayn considers the bag of confetti at his feet and wonders if death by cheap paper would be a valiant way to go.

The non-Student Body kids arrive in the hour or so after prom officially starts. Because Meiying Qiao has to maintain her status as the most popular girl in school, she and her clique arrive in a gaudy Hummer limo. Meiying and Jeremy certainly make an impressive pair, the star basketball player and a girl who already has an endorsement deal with a weight loss tea company. They’ve even coordinated their outfits, both of them in attention-grabbing red. Zayn looks at them and knows deep in his bones that they are a match made in Instagram heaven.

Summer looks young and nervous when she arrives clutching Jessica Payne’s hand like a lifeline. Zayn’s always thought Jessica looks startlingly like her father, a heart-faced girl with long, curly brown hair and friendly brown eyes. But tonight Jessica’s straightened her hair and she’s wearing a gold, backless dress. She looks like a vixen, displaying curves Zayn feels strange noticing, but Jessica’s outfit complements Summer’s fairly well. And when Jessica looks at Summer, with a gaping mouth and reverential eyes, Zayn wonders if Summer had been missing something very important about Jessica all along.

 

The balloons and streamers are going to be a nightmare to clean up. Zayn will be finding glitter in his hair for days. And he will have to hail a cab because after it’s all said and done, he’s sure it’s going to be too late to catch the tube. But Summer’s happy in her off-white jumpsuit and Jeremy’s smiling at his date like she lassoed the bloody moon. They’ll all pile back into their limo and drink more of the devil punch that they think none of the parents have noticed is spiked. And they’ll come back home woefully hungover and Zayn will hand Summer paracetamol, her water bottle, and a stack of toast and then give her a lecture about the importance of not consuming shitty vodka.

But for right now, Summer and Jeremy are just dancing at their prom. Two amazing kids, dancing while the shitty DJ Harry insisted they hire spins his shitty tracks. Summer and Jeremy -- hell, all of the kids -- look excited and full of shining optimism, like the world is just there for the taking. And it is.

Zayn wonders what it would’ve been like if he’d met Harry when they were sixteen, seventeen years old. Would they have quarreled then, too? Would they have shoved at each other and called each other twats? Or would they have been best mates, the type of lads who shared beds and swapped liquor-loosened secrets very late at night? It’s impossible to know, but Zayn wonders anyway.

Zayn has to admit that he likes the way it unfolded in this universe, even if he did have to wait forty years for everything to fall into place.

Harry finds Zayn where he’s sat in the corner of the room, drinking some of the devil punch that is most certainly spiked with Smirnoff. It tastes horrible, but Zayn keeps drinking. Clean-up will be more amusing if he’s got a buzz. Harry slides onto the floor next to him and taps his thighs along to the music.

“You’re all quiet,” Harry says teasingly, knocking his shoulder against Zayn’s. “What are you thinking about?”

“You.”

Harry goes pink and pleased, ducking his eyes and grinning bashfully. He’s really quite cute when Zayn catches him flat-footed like this. “Good thoughts?”

“The best,” Zayn says. Zayn reaches for Harry’s hand. It’s warm and a little clammy but Zayn still kisses his palm nonetheless. “Dance with me?’

Harry snorts. “But Nick’s playing Girls Aloud.”

“Well noted,” Zayn says. “Not a fan of ‘The Promise’? Do you want me to go request S Club 7 instead?”

“There ain’t no party like an S Club Party,” Harry shrugs. “No -- it’s fine. C’mere.”

Harry stands and pulls Zayn up, too. And then Harry brings Zayn in close. He’s warm and his hand is sure and solid where it sits against Zayn’s lower back. Zayn inhales a whiff of his cologne and presses himself closer. He’s never really wanted to imprint himself on someone else before, but he might give it a go for Harry.

They sway there together, in the hallway of their kids’ school while the DJ plays a song from fucking 2008. And it shouldn’t be so sweet -- shouldn’t be romantic at all, really -- but Zayn can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.


End file.
